


The Story of Edward Nashton's Youth

by Miss_Vile



Series: Life Begins Anew [5]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death (Hunting trip...sorry), Blood and Torture, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Child Abuse, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Domestic Violence, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revenge Plot, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21542419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Vile/pseuds/Miss_Vile
Summary: Edward Nashton was ten years old and he existed in two places at once.
Relationships: Edward Nygma/ Barbara Kean (sort of), Edward Nygma/Leslie Thompkins, Isabella/Edward Nygma, Kristen Kringle/Edward Nygma, Lucius Fox & Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Series: Life Begins Anew [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1393399
Comments: 28
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be another character study chapter in ["The Diary of Millie Jane Van Dahl"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19303855/chapters/45912784) buuuuuut it ended up being super long and I decided to make it a standalone story within the series. Then it got _even longer_ and I had to break it up into multiple chapters.
> 
> You don't have to read any of the other parts of this series for this story to make sense but be sure to check the tags. Some parts might be triggering or upsetting. Especially in chapter 1.

_I cannot tell my story without reaching a long way back. If it were possible, I would reach back farther still- into the very years of my childhood, and beyond them into distant ancestral past._

_I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me. My story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious, as invented stories are. It has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams- like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves._

(Excerpt from Demian: The Story of Emil Sinclair's Youth by Hermann Hesse)

Edward Nashton was ten years old and he existed in two places at once.

One Edward was lost in the pages of an adventure book while the Other Edward was bleeding from the mouth and getting beaten by the elder Nashton's belt. The Other was created for that purpose. To shield Eddie from the darkness that enveloped him. To catch his father's bouldered fist while the more innocent of them could exist in peace. Blissfully unaware of his circumstances.

This is why little Eddie Nashton, covered in bruises the other adults in his life didn't report, was so confused when he brought home news that he'd won the contest at school.

There was a jar in the library filled with brightly colored balls. Students were tasked with guessing how many there were. The winner would get a certificate and a small trophy from the mathematics teacher. Nothing extravagant like a scholarship or accolade, but enough positive attention to satiate a child's self-esteem.

Edward guessed the closest number. He calculated the circumference and volume of the jar and was able to find the answer quite easily. However, his father hadn't been impressed.

“You must have cheated.” his father said, not even looking up from the television to read the certificate with Edward Nashton's name written in gold lettering.

“I didn't cheat.” Edward shook his head, “It was an easy math problem. You see, all you have to do is measure the-”

Before he could finish, his father snatched the certificate out of his hand and tore it in half. He handed the pieces back to Edward. The crisp cardstock torn right through the middle. A harsh and jagged line splitting _Edward_ from _Nashton._

Edward could feel the shift in his mind. One door closing while another opened. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the man with yellowed teeth and hops on his breath.

“Just because you're too stupid to have figured it out doesn't mean I cheated.” Other Edward spoke, his voice pitched low. Blacker than tar.

“The fuck did you just say, boy?” Richard was towering over his son like a snarling animal

“I... I'm sorry.” Edward shivered. Anticipating the beating he knew was coming. Would his father actually kill him this time? He hadn't ever talked back before. The words spilled out of him before he realized he was even speaking. Would his father use a belt or his hands this time?

A fist collided with his nose.

Ah. Hands it is...

Edward lost track of how long he had been rolling around on the floor. Blood pouring from his nose like a faucet. His glasses broken and mangled on the floor.

“Rich! Stop it!” his mother's voice cried

_No... wait._ Edward thought. He couldn't will any air into his lungs. The image in front of him was blurry without his glasses. But he could still make out the two figures above him and was forced to watch as his mother was dragged out of the room by her auburn hair.

Later, Edward was seated on the counter in the kitchen while his mother blotted antiseptic on his face. Richard Nashton had left to go pick up more cigarettes and beer. Allowing them both time to breathe but not permitting them to leave the house. A mostly silent order given by the patriarch of their home when he locked the door behind him.

“You can't talk to your father like that ever again, Eddie.” his mother chastised

Edward swallowed around the lump in his throat. He had difficulty speaking nowadays. Even when he wanted to, he would stammer or just not speak at all. He stopped speaking at school altogether after he was forced to stand in front of his entire fifth-grade class and give a presentation on Father's Day. His teachers thought he was mute. Others thought he was being defiant. Lately, he spent as much time in the principal's office as he did the library.

“I mean it.” she held his face firmly in her hands

“W-why do we have to s-stay here?” Edward stammered, “Why can't we just leave? He-He's not here now!”

“Where would we go, Edward?”

“I don't know!” he yelled, “You're my mom! You're supposed to have the answers. Not me!”

“I know that, sweetie.” She kissed his forehead, “I wasn't trying to upset you...”

“I want to leave.” he wiped snot from his nose

“I don't know how to, Eddie...” his mother confessed, “But, I promise you I will figure it out.”

She sealed her promise with a hug.

But it was the last hug she would ever give him.

It takes Edward a few minutes to process what he's looking at. Normally, his mother picks him up from the bus stop. Especially when the weather is like it was that day. Cold and rainy. Slush and ice sticking to his white sneakers as he pulls his fleece jacket closer to his body.

Cold like the body of his mother left bleeding on the kitchen floor.

“Look at what you've done, Eddie.” his father's voice sounds distant even though he's right behind him. His calloused fingers are digging into Edward's shoulders.

His mother's lifeless eyes are peering up at him like two green marbles that have lost their sparkle. There is something at the forefront of his mind preventing him from fully taking in the reality of the situation. Other Edward coddling him and forcing himself in the driver's seat in time to feel his father's fist collide with the side of his head. He's used to the abuse by this point. He almost wishes his father would get more creative.

The elder Nashton is screaming at him but Edward can't hear the words over the siren blaring in his ears. They were ringing with such an intensity it made him sick to his stomach. However, Other Edward is more interested in the fact that his more innocent half is walking around the kitchen like a specter. He's staring at the corpse of Pamela Nashton and examining the bruising on her abdomen that indicates internal hemorrhaging, the gash on her forehead, and the sharp corner of the table that she had allegedly fallen on.

_An accident_ , his father had told him. It must have happened sometime in the morning because breakfast was still on the stove and the fridge was wide open. She must have fallen shortly after Edward said goodbye to her that morning. Approximately seven-thirty. The bus ride and walk home took thirty minutes.

Eight hours... She had been on that floor for _eight hours._

Curiously, her body was only just starting to stiffen. Only her jaw and neck were stuck at an offending angle. According to a textbook he found at the library, a body undergoes biochemical changes after death that causes the muscles to stiffen. Rigor Mortis, for a body of his mother's size, sets in two to four hours after death. Based on the fact that her skin isn't discolored and there are no signs of Livor Mortis, Edward estimates that the time of death was around one-thirty in the afternoon.

She was bleeding and in pain for six of those eight hours.

“Where were you?” Edward finally asks

“I was out.” his father spat

“You were at the bar.” Other Ed rolled his eyes, “Was that before or after you beat her to death?”

He doesn't remember anything after that.

In the following months, the court ruled Pamela's death an accident and Edward was sent back into the arms of his abusive father. A father who played the court for saps and made himself out to be some heartbroken and distraught single father. A man who loyally served his country before being relieved of duty after an injury and came home to Gotham to be with his wife and disturbed son.

Edward, according to his father, had been the last one to see Pamela Nashton alive. His father went so far as to imply that maybe he even witnessed his mother fall or even, god forbid, might have pushed her before leaving for school that morning.

Shortly after the verdict was announced, his father considered having him committed at the children's wing at Arkham. He wanted nothing more than to wipe his hands of the mess and leave the care of Edward to the State. However, the asylum closed its doors due to budget constraints. This spared Edward from being committed but it meant he would be trapped with his father in that house on Waterbury. Edward wasn't certain if Fate spared him from worse that day or not.

“We could just run away.” he spoke to the empty chair near his bookcase

“ _And do what exactly?”_ a voice in his head responded. He was speaking to the Other more frequently these days. His therapist, if you could call her that, encouraged him to treat those darker aspects of himself as a separate entity. He'd always maintained some modicum of control and the two halves remained distinct but still very much himself. There was an understood divide between the two halves but never a full split. However, treating them as separate gave him someone to talk to.

“We could start a new life. It's not like dad would go looking for us.”

“ _And live on the streets? Yeah. Sure. Better get used to me being in charge though.”_ he chuckled, his visage slowly coming into view as Edward concentrated, _“You'd be dead meat on your own.”_

Edward chewed at his nail beds, “Do you have a better plan?”

“ _I do actually.”_ he smiled ear to ear, _“We could set a trap!”_

“Like a spring gun?”

The Other laughed, _“I like the way you think! But, no. I'm thinking something more... long term.”_

The plan, from that day on, was to find a way to frame his father for the murder he committed. If the police or the department of human services weren't going to do their jobs properly, then Edward would do it for them.

Forensics had always been fascinating. He delighted in reading textbooks about serial killers and felt an odd rush of adrenaline when those texts contained crime scene photos. The Other barely had to push in order to convince Edward that it was the best option for both of them. And the most fun.

Edward soon gravitated to more macabre subject matter. His favorite books were a collection of photographs by artist Joel-Peter Witkin and another by a photojournalist named Arthur Fellig. He would stare at the artful assortment of body parts and the rawness of the murder scenes for hours. Noting every detail and committing them to memory. The way the blood pooled on the New York streets that weren't that dissimilar to Gotham's own. The types of injuries. The odd angles of the bodies. The different tools used to bisect the body splayed out next to a bowl of fruit in one of Witkin's pieces...

He haunted the Gotham Woods almost as often as he did the Main Public Library. He collected stray cats, determined their times of death, left them in varying locations, and documented the differences in decomposition when he came back to them. His closet at home quickly became filled with boxes full of bones, preserved specimens, and detailed drawings he made of his studies.

“Dad... Could you take me hunting?”

Ed braced himself for a beating but was instead met with an expression he'd never seen his father wear. Pride, maybe?

“You wanna go hunting?” Richard chuckled, turning off the television. The room was suddenly too quiet and Edward became aware of the sound of his own heartbeat thrumming in his chest.

“Yes.” Edward nodded, “I w-want to k-know what it's like, please. Sir.”

“Well hot damn!” Richard slapped his shoulder, “Go get your coat.”

His dad, in a rare moment of fatherhood, agreed to take him out to the woods. It's the first time his father took him out to do anything. The entire car ride his father beamed and talked about how happy he was that Edward was finally pursuing a more _manly_ hobby. Edward rolled his eyes. He was more interested in learning how to use a gun and seeing how fresh bullet wounds compared to old ones.

His father fumbles through teaching him how to use the rifle. His speech already slurred from the beers he had on the drive out there. Edward logs all of the details meticulously but still finds that he has to learn the nuances of shooting through trial and error.

His first targets are rabbits. They're small and agile but Edward can creep up on them well enough to take the shot accurately. Years of having to slink around the house unnoticed helped cultivate that particular skill. He notes the damage to their tiny bodies based on the range and caliber of the rifle.

He's looking at the Polaroids he's taken of his kills. Small trophies that he can take home with him and hide among his other oddities. He hears something shuffle through the branches. Richard is passed out drunk at the base of a tree and snoring. A twig snaps. Edward stuffs his photographs into his coat pocket and readies his rifle as he sees something move just beyond the trees.

It's much too large to be a rabbit and too quiet to be another person. Edward slowly stalks his way through the bramble to try and get a closer look at his prey. He can see it just beyond his reach. A swath of light brown fur peeking through the leaves.

Edward sticks out his tongue as he steadies his gun. It's heavier than he expected and it's cold so his hands are shaking. He inhales, holds his breath, and steadies his finger on the trigger. He startles himself when he exhales and the bullet flies from the other end of the gun. He hadn't even realized he'd squeezed.

He slings the rifle over his shoulder and runs toward where he saw the animal. He looks behind the tree and stops dead in his tracks at the amount of blood. There's... so much. Much more than a rabbit. His eyes follow the trail of sticky red fluid all the way to a very scared, eviscerated doe.

The bullet ripped through her stomach, but she hasn't died yet. She's thrashing around on the ground and making this _noise._ The sound is making his head spin like a top. He falls to his knees and covers his ears but it is so _loud_ he can't block it out. He closes his eyes but all he can see on the back of his eyelids is his mother's lifeless body on that kitchen floor. Her eyes looking up at him.

His eyes fly open but now he's staring at the wide-eyed doe. Crying and squawking as the life drains out of her...

“Well, would you look at that.” His father was standing behind him. Celebratory beers in hand, “Here, you little rascal. You've earned it.”

Edward takes the beer and looks up at his father in disgust, “I'm only thirteen.”

“Don't be a fuckin' pussy and just drink the damn beer.” His father demanded

Edward obeyed and immediately wretched. The bitter-tasting foam had crawled its way up his nasal cavity and sent him into a coughing fit. His father just laughed at him before walking over to the doe and marveling at her corpse.

Edward quietly pours the rest of the beer out onto the ground and tries to hold his breath so he doesn't have to endure the smell again. He struggles to look back to the doe that he murdered. His father's back is turned.

_It would be so easy,_ Edward thought.

He points the rifle at his father's head.

“ _Don't do that, dummy.”_ The Other tells him

“We could just end it here.” Ed whispers, “No one ever comes out here... We could even make it look like an accident or even a suicide.”

“ _Stick to the plan.”_ The Other growls, _“If we don't follow through, we'll never know if we were capable of outsmarting him.”_

High school wasn't any safer for him than home was. His awkward demeanor and odd habit of spouting off riddles when he was nervous made him a target for bullies of the worst kind. They were always the same: Large athletic types who overcompensated for their lack of brain cells with steroids and neanderthal levels of crudeness. Other times, his bullies were needlessly cruel girls who congregated in large groups. They would stalk him through the halls whispering insults and batting their lashes at him only to embarrass him later if he so much as smiled back at them.

“What did I tell you about dripping on the couch?” his father complains

Edward says nothing. Instead, he forces himself to sit up. He rubs at his temples and tries to massage the fog out of his brain. Without thinking, he shakes his head. Water from the rain he'd just walked home in splatters all over the couch and onto his father's shirt. _Oops..._

His father doesn't hesitate to hit him. One singular slap to his face that makes his ear ring on that side. Edward is glad that he at least took his glasses off before lying down on the couch. He rubs at his face and looks up at him bleary-eyed. But his father is no longer interested in hitting him and is instead focused on the envelope in Edward's lap.

“These your test results?” he snatches the paper and reads over the numbers. He scoffs, “Jesus, Eddie. I knew you were stupid but this is embarrassing.”

“I fell asleep during the test.” Edward says through gritted teeth. His doctor had him on a cocktail of anti-psychotics and sedatives. All at the request of his father. They kept him docile and pliable. He fought back less. Edward agreed to take them only because they numbed the pain on occasion but they also made him so drowsy that he couldn't function in school. Luckily, he was the studious type and was able to keep his grades up. Tests, on the other hand, were a different animal and he would either fall asleep or reread the same question over and over again until the bell rang and he would have to turn it in mostly unanswered.

It doesn't prevent him from getting into Gotham University on an academic scholarship. Papers he'd written on biology and forensic pathology landed him right where he needed to be. He had offers to attend a more prestigious school but he chose GU for a reason. The pieces of his elaborate puzzle were slowly sliding into place.

Midway through his first semester, he managed to convince his financial aid advisor to allow him a work-study position at the Gotham City Police Department as a forensic assistant.

He has to stifle a laugh at how easy it was to gain the trust of Captain Essen and the other forensic techs. It isn't long before he's able to slink away at the end of his shift to the records room and pick the lock. He curses under his breath at the lack of organization to the files. The old lady who worked in the records room was pushing eighty and could barely shuffle from one end of the room to the other, let alone keep all of the files in order.

Edward eventually finds what he's after and tucks the file under his arm. He's able to slip away unnoticed and catch the bus back to the library. He makes his way to his preferred corner near the stacks and opens the file.

He's underprepared for it now that he has it in his hands. His mother had been dead for ten years and he'd been stewing in hatred and an insatiable need for justice to be served. But it didn't stop his hands from shaking.

The first thing he sees is a photograph of his mother. It was taken after one of her piano recitals. Her hair is pulled back in a bun and her cat-eye glasses framed her round face. Her smile was bright and her cheeks were pleasantly round. She looked so young in that photo. He couldn't recall a time that she looked like that. Most of his memories of her were when she had her hair down and tangled. Her eyes were always red and puffy. Bruised. She always looked like she was trapped in her own skin.

He sets it aside and reads the rest of the file. His blood boils the more he reads. The coroner's report _completely_ left out the information regarding her other injuries and internal bleeding. It was obvious from the crime scene photos but the report instead focused on the more obvious head injury. Edward pulls out a blank medical examiner's report that he'd stolen and carefully rewrites it using the same angular handwriting of the original. His eidetic memory serves him well as he recalls every detail from that day and adds it to the report. He also removes the original police report with Richard Nashton's statement from the file and replaces it with one that makes his alibi unclear. Not like it was believable to begin with.

After replacing the file and removing any evidence of his tampering, he called in an anonymous tip to Homicide that eventually led them to re-open the case on Pamela Nashton. It didn't take long for investigators to re-evaluate the evidence and determine that Richard Nashton was their prime suspect. Edward couldn't stop himself from gleefully mocking his father as the police dragged him away in handcuffs.

He doesn't hesitate to sell the house on Waterbury. It belonged to his late grandmother and Pamela had been too sentimental to leave it. It and the memories she had of growing up there had been the only thing she had left of her mother. But, to Edward, there were no pleasant memories. If he could have burned it to the ground and salted the Earth where it stood, he would have.

He uses the money from the house to purchase his first car- a light green Chevy Nova. He's vibrating behind the wheel. Overstimulated by the freedom. He sees an ad in the paper for an apartment over on Grundy Street. It's a bit of a drive from Gotham University but it was well within walking distance of the GCPD.

It's an open area floor plan. One spacious room with a small bathroom off to the side. The kitchenette is small but Edward figured he could always purchase some additional counter space or a freestanding island. What has him most excited is the large window. Having lived for so long trapped in that tiny two-bedroom house on Waterbury made him anxious. But the window made his new home feel less like a prison. Even better was the fact that the rent was cheap because of the billboard that bathed the apartment in green light. Edward treated it more like a feature than an actual problem. It's not like he slept most nights anyway.

Years passed by in a blur. Without the stress of his father there to distract him, he found that he was able to focus on his studies more and even pursue an eclectic assortment of hobbies. He found time to play the piano again. He learned French. He even wrote long academic papers on forensic studies in his spare time. Of which he had plenty. He didn't have any friends so he was left to his own devices when he wasn't at school.

He'd received a letter in the mail telling him that one of his papers had caught the attention of a notable forensic scientist and would be published in a science magazine. He's not entirely sure what propels him forward as he takes the letter into his hands, climbs into his car, and drives toward Blackgate Bridge.

His visits to his father were infrequent and usually only consisted of him silently mocking the man as he wasted away in chains. His presence was a courtesy granted only for his own amusement. Though he would never admit that aloud. This visit was different though. Edward was practically bouncing in his seat as he told his father all about his paper on preventing false positives at crime scenes and how it was going to be published. How he's the first person without a Doctorate to win the Whippleburn Prize for his writing.

Ed becomes all too aware that he's been the only one talking. He stops and bites at the inflamed skin around his fingernails, “Aren't you going to say something?”

“I get it now...” His father said, his tone suddenly serious, “You only ever wanted me to admit you were smart.”

Edward can't help but hold his mouth agape as he awaits his father's next words.

“You could have been great, Eddie. Too bad you're a fucking psycho.”

“Don't call me that.” Edward seethes

“I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“Stop it.”

“Maybe then your mother would still be alive.”

“Enough!” Edward yells, “I won't let you talk to me like that anymore. I'm through listening to you.”

“God, you sound just like her.” Richard laughed

“Men seek me out even though I consume their lives. A vindicated return and a trading of eyes. What am I?”

“I'm not answering your _stupid_ fucking riddles.”

“Revenge.” Edward spits out the answer, “You're _never_ getting out of here, dad. I made sure of that. You are going to waste away and die. Alone. You're _finally_ going to get what you deserve.”

If his father said anything after that, Edward nor the Other bothered to remember it.


	2. Chapter 2

The interview was a formality. Edward was the only forensic assistant who stayed at the GCPD throughout his college career. He even volunteered during the summer and on holidays. After he successfully landed Richard Nashton in prison for life without parole, he struggled to find new purpose in life. He'd already dedicated so much time to working in forensics that he thought it was the most obvious path to take.

He helped solve some of the more difficult puzzles and often provided crucial insight on cases due to his encyclopedic knowledge of anatomy, chemistry, and trivial facts. He didn't always get credit for his contributions as an assistant but he had at least garnered the affection of Captain Sarah Essen.

“Your resume is impressive.” Captain Essen smiled at him, “And you changed your name.”

“Yes... I did.” he adjusts his glasses, “And I'd prefer if the world just forgot that I had any association with that name.”

“No worries, Mister Nygma. Your secret is safe with me.” she smiled warmly at him before reaching her hand across the table, “Welcome to the GCPD. I look forward to working with you.”

Edward skipped his way out of the Captain's office and promptly made his way to the record's annex. He opens the door and almost forgets to breathe when he sees Kristen Kringle. She replaced the former record's keeper a few months ago and Edward had fallen in love with her the very moment he laid eyes on her.

Her hair was a flattering shade of red. She often wore it pulled back in a playful ponytail that bobbed when she walked. Her cat-eye glasses framed her face and accentuated the apples of her cheeks.

“Did you need something?” she asked him, “I'm sorry. What was your name again?”

“Nygma.” he smiled and chuckled fondly at the idea of having to introduce himself. Again, “Edward. I, um... was just _reacquainting_ myself with the precinct. I officially start work here tomorrow!” he shifts his weight on the balls of his feet.

“Ah. I see.” she makes a face and then turns away from him to continue her work.

Just as Edward is about to walk away, he hears Miss Kringle scream. He turns and she's retreating from a stack of papers piled on her desk. Edward rushes over to her and smiles as he sees what caused her upset.

“Aww... Look at you.” Edward scooped the spider into his hands. He turns to Miss Kringle and holds it out in his palm. She gasps and takes a step back. Edward takes a step closer, “This little guy is a Black Lace-Weaver. They like to hide in dark corners. Fun fact! This species participates in Matriphagy. You see when her eggs hatch she creates these little sacs filled with nutrients for her babies to eat. However, they will eventually climb onto her back and eat their mother by sucking out her insides. Isn't that cool?”

“That's disgusting.” she says, “Just... take that out of here.”

“Will do.” he says, happy to oblige.

As he leaves the records room he swears he hears her mutter something under her breath that vaguely sounds like, _“Freak.”_ But that couldn't be right. Miss Kringle was kind and wouldn't call him names like that.

Bullies seemed to follow Edward everywhere he went. It's not unlike when he was at school but at least the abuse isn't physical anymore- Captain Essen made sure to nip that in the bud as quickly as it had started. It doesn't prevent him from eavesdropping into conversations to avoid accidentally walking in on a conversation about himself.

“That little freak is getting on my damn nerves.” Detective Harvey Bullock took a swig from his hip flask. Edward tried not to wretch as the smell of cheap whiskey wafts passed his desk and straight into Ed's nose.

“Yeah, you're telling me...” Detective Gordon rubbed at his temples, “Hey, Ed.”

“Yes! Hi... These are the files you asked for.” Edward handed the folder to Jim. He was afraid to meet his gaze because he assumed they had been talking about him.

“Thanks, Nygma.” Jim smiled. He at least made an effort to acknowledge Ed's existence day to day. Even if it was just out of pity.

“Really, who does he think he is? Waltzin' in here like he owns the damn place!” Harvey's barely noticed Ed's presence.

Oh... They were talking about the Penguin.

Ed had been curious after the mobster made his rather dramatic appearance at the GCPD. Seemingly resurrected from a watery grave. Ed often stayed late in the forensics lab so getting access to the Penguin's criminal file had been easy. Especially when people like Detective Gordon left it out on his desk. There wasn't much there aside from a few misdemeanors he'd committed as a teenager. Mostly robberies at convenient stores. Never money. Usually just food items and occasionally women's jewelry.

Interestingly enough, there's a note listing his birth name as Oswald Kapelput. Ed recognizes the name as being Germanic in origin. Hungary, perhaps? Ed recalls a time when a woman, flustered and wearing an old fashioned Miss Havisham dress, was marching around the bullpen seeking answers to her son's whereabouts. Her accent was thick and there weren't many officers willing to deal with her as she sobbed incoherently into the missing person's paperwork. Ed suspects that she changed her son's name to _Cobblepot_ in order to spare him the xenophobic bullying associated with being an immigrant. Ed couldn't exactly blame her.

He spots Oswald's unique walk from across the bullpen. He's carrying a card and looks like he's out hunting prey. Edward can't help but stare. The black and white photographs didn't do him justice. He was shorter than he expected with a ruddy complexion. Ed can't ignore the vibrating of his bones. A force compelling him to come closer. His hair is standing on end and he finds himself drawn like a magnet towards the man.

“Can I help you?” the Penguin spun around on his shiny dress shoes

“I don't think so. Can you?”

“ _Smartass._ ” the Other chimes in, uninvited

The man smiles. His eyes narrow and Edward wonders if the Penguin is going to slit his throat here and there in the bullpen. He isn't sure why that excites him so much.

“ _He's even prettier up close.”_

“What do you want?” Penguin sneered. His words poisonous.

“What I want the poor have, the rich need and if you eat it you'll die.”

The man's expression changes to one of confusion, “Is this-? Are you asking me a riddle?”

“Do you like riddles?”

“ _Please say yes.”_

“No.” the Penguin answers.

“So, do you give up?” The Other answers through him. A mischievous grin tucked away at the corner of his mouth.

“Friend, lookit-”

“Nothing!” Edward blurts out, “The answer is nothing. The poor have it. The rich need it. And, if you eat it-”

“Who are you?” the dark-haired man held up a hand to silence Edward and prevent him any further embarrassment.

“ _Ooo, can I answer?”_ The Other asks

“Edward. _Nygma.”_ he smiles. The sound of his new name never tiring on his tongue. The Other rolls his eyes. Clearly annoyed at being ignored.

The Penguin is just staring at him. Mouth agape and his brow cinched in befuddlement. Ed assumes it's because the man half expected him to be someone important. To possess a name that he recognized. But instead, he's just an Enigma. Edward feels a sudden jolt of electricity at the power he feels. At the control he unexpectedly has over this interaction.

“I know who _you_ are.” His voice deepens.

“Then you know that you're standing too close.” the Penguin glares. Not even bothering to look Edward in the eye any longer. That buzzing connection he feels suddenly broken as his blue-green eyes pull away from his own.

Edward notes the shift in the power dynamic and takes a cautious step backwards. He feels a lethal compulsion to wrestle back the control he had. An invisible and dangerous game of tug-of-war, “Did you know that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?”

The man glares. And Edward feels like he's on fire. Suddenly willing to do anything to keep this man's attention.

“Isn't that neat?”

“Nice to meet you, sir.” his tone is sinister, “ _Keep moving._ ”

Edward wants to maintain their connection but decides against it, “Will do.”

He watches from a distance at the interaction between the infamous Penguin and Detective James Gordon. There was a rumor in the precinct that they were secretly lovers and Edward couldn't help but find it an amusing puzzle to solve.

The smile that the Penguin gives Jim when he sees him is unmistakable. If they aren't lovers, it is at least _very_ obvious that the Penguin was pining after the rugged detective. Edward hears a snap and looks down to see that he's broken the pencil he borrowed from Miss Kringle in half.

He watches as Detective Gordon shifts his body language to make himself look more imposing. His broad figure towering over the smaller man who looks genuinely hurt by whatever the detective has just said to him. A rejection of some sort. The Penguin places the card into the detective's hands and gives him an almost pleading look. The Penguin's eyes glance down to the detective's lips for a brief moment before looking sad and turning away to leave.

Detective Gordon doesn't hesitate to crumble the card and throw it into the nearby trashcan. Edward's heart sinks. It reminds him a bit of all of those times he found notes he'd written and cards he'd made to Miss Kringle in the trash.

Edward doesn't understand why Miss Kringle seems to gravitate towards the more dishonest and roguish of the officers around the precinct. Arnold Flass had been one of the worst of them and Edward was overjoyed watching Detective Gordon arrest him in the bullpen. Finally, there was _someone_ in that Hell hole willing to stand up to the bullies in that place! Then there was Thomas Dougherty...

“ _I like the name, personally.”_ The Other told him. Officer Dougherty enjoyed provoking Edward by calling him _Riddle Man._ It was used as a way to tease him by taking something that he loved, a quirk of his that he felt made him interesting, and twisting it into an insult.

“He refuses to call me by my name just to irritate me.” Edward bit his nails

“ _Don't complain. At least you have a name...”_ The Other said through gritted teeth

“You don't _need_ a name. You're a figment of my imagination.”

The Other glared at him through the mirror.

Edward ignored him and turned away from the mirror toward his coat and keys.

“ _Where are you going?”_

“Officer Dougherty said he was meeting with Miss Kringle tonight. Maybe if I stop him before he gets to her apartment-”

“ _God, listen to yourself!”_ The Other's voice echoed loudly in his ears. Louder than it normally was. Almost as if it had come from Edward's own mouth and had rattled off of the walls, _“I hate that gorilla just as much as you do and I especially hate how much he reminds us of dad. But saving your little crush isn't going to bring mom back.”_

“Stop talking.” Edward palmed at his eyes, “You're too loud.”

“ _And you're an idiot.”_ The Other sneered, _“What are you planning on doing anyway?”_

“I'm just going to talk to him.”

“ _Brilliant.”_ The Other scoffs, _“And if that doesn't work?”_

Edward fidgets.

“ _At least take the knife with you.”_ he rolls his eyes, _“And, when he inevitably beats the shit out of you, don't expect me to take over. This will be your own mess to deal with.”_

Edward knew where Miss Kringle's apartment was. He followed her home one day with the intent of sending her flowers or some other innocuous gift. His logic telling him that it was people like Flass and Dougherty who were throwing away his notes and cards and that maybe they wouldn't get lost if he just sent them directly to her home. Edward grips the steering wheel. His ears are buzzing, the train is roaring overhead... and there is blood all over his hands.

“ _We're going to have to clean the blood out of the upholstery.”_ Other Ed grimaced at the mess in the floorboard

“Why did you do that?!” Edward cries, “W-why did you kill him?”

“ _I thought I was just a figment of your imagination?”_ the Other glared back at him through the rearview mirror, _“I wasn't the one who stabbed him. That was all you, buddy.”_

“No... that's not-” he panics, “I should turn myself in. M-maybe I can tell them that it was self-defense?”

“ _Kinda hard to claim it was self-defense when you stabbed him_ eleven _times.”_ Other Ed explained, _“Besides, the other officers would never let us get away with killing one of their own.”_

Disposing of the body had been an easier task than anticipated. He drove out to the Gotham Woods, rolled some spare plastic out into the trunk of his car, and chopped the man into pieces with the tools he kept on hand in case he stumbled across a particularly interesting specimen of roadkill. He stuffed the extra plastic and Carne ala Dougherty into a suitcase and boldly dragged it into the GCPD. Doctor Thompkins- the new Medical Examiner- gave him unlimited access to the morgue and he intended to take full advantage of her generosity.

Getting away with murder gave him a boost of confidence he never realized he was lacking. So much so that he finally gets the nerve to ask Miss Kringle on a date. Granted, that was with a little help from the Other who kept poking and prodding at his subconscious.

They were enjoying an evening together at his apartment. They were laughing and joking with one another before Edward spoiled the mood.

“I'm glad he's dead.” Edward blurts out. The record stops and the room is pregnant with unnerving silence.

“Well... he's...” Kristen stammers, “He just left town. He's not dead.”

“Right, yeah, I know. Figure of speech.” he chuckles through his nervousness. He hates the way she's looking at him now. Like a mouse ensnared in the teeth of a predator, “He's dead to you. Out of your life. Not _dead_ dead”

“Um... I'm gonna go use the restroom.” She stands up and smooths out the wrinkles in her dress before walking passed him.

“ _You blew it, dummy.”_ the Other taunted, _“Nice work.”_

“Leave me alone!”

“Are you talking to me?” Kristen came back with her arms crossed.

“No.”

Kristen shook her head and began picking up her things.

“Honestly, Kristen, I wasn't talking to you!”

“Who else is there?” she anxiously twisted the strap of her purse around her wrist.

“I talk... to myself.” he stumbled over the admission, “It's crazy, I know. I just... I have this... uh... I have this voice in my head, a sort of stronger version of me that keeps _this_ me in line because I'm such a klutz.”

“ _Oh, I'm more than that.”_ the Other laughs

“I can understand that.” Kristen smiles, finding his explanation endearing “I think we all have a voice like that.”

“You think?” Ed says. The Other rolls his eyes.

The Other groans as the couple turn their attentions back on each other and kiss on the couch. Not wanting to be ignored any further, he sets out to spoil the mood all on his own. Whispering in Ed's ear about how he should just let him take over because she'd be more interested in that _stronger_ version of himself. How she's only tolerating him now and how someone like Ed could never satisfy someone like her.

“Ed... Is something bothering you?” she smiles, “We can stop, if that's what you want.”

“No! I just... I... uh...” he chuckles nervously, “I'm perfectly fine.”

“You don't have to lie to me.” Her eyes are no longer filled with lust like they had been before, “Is that voice in your head being mean to you?” she asks, not quite realizing what she's asking

“He is.” Edward clenches his eyes shut

“Come here.” she says and invites Edward into a hug. He hesitantly obeys and presses his ear to her chest as she gently strokes his hair and comforts him with the rhythmic thrum of her heartbeat. She had a motherly instinct about her. She craved the forcefulness of a stronger man while at the same time sought out validation in her own self worth by fixing people. That somehow her love was powerful enough to make them a better person.

With Edward, she could sense there was something wrong. A thorn in his side that she wanted to seek out and remove. Offer relief while at the same time having a manic sort of hold over him. She wanted to be the only one in the whole world to see him exposed like a nerve. To know what made him so odd and be privy to his secrets. She only needed him to open up and allow her in. And Edward wanted to. Desperately wanted to.

They play this game of cat and mouse through several more dates. Her chasing him like he's some scared rabbit that she doesn't realize is diseased and not fit for consumption. That nagging feeling that there is more to discover under the surface seeps into her mundane conversations over coffee and Edward finds that he can no longer escape it.

So he stops running...

“Do you believe me now?” the light from the bedside table illuminated the shiny metal in Ed's hand. The words T. Dougherty unmistakably etched into the chrome-plated copper.

“Oh my god...” she gasps. The answer she had been searching for stared her dead in the face and she doesn't like what she sees.

The next few moments have Ed in a tailspin. She's clamoring for her things and stammering through her words. Why is she acting this way? He'd saved her! He reaches out as he begs her to stay. She recoils at his touch and shrieks.

“Would you please let me explain?”

“There is nothing to explain! I don't even know who you are.” she says, “No, that's wrong. You are a _murderer.”_

Ed feels a pang in his chest. An old wound suddenly exposed to the harsh Gotham air. Red and swollen and infected, “He was a monster! You said so. He was abusing you!” Ed reasoned

“I can't believe I even fell for you, you _sicko.”_

“I'm not sick! I love you! I did it for you.”

“Everything I ever thought about you, I was right!” she cried, “I should have my head examined!”

He pleads with her to stay. To stay and listen and understand why he is the way that he is. Wasn't this what she wanted? They continue walking around one another in tight, concentric circles as she makes her way to the door.

“You are a psychopath!”

“That is not true! That's not who I am. Don't say that about me.” He's a child all over again. Doctors and therapists scrambling his brain. Sedating him and wrapping him in a blanket of diagnosis meant to tame him. Begging the adults in his life to just stop and _listen_ to him for once.

“You are going to prison where they will do horrible things to you.” she promises, “Things that you deserve.”

“Don't say that to me!” He takes an aggressive step forward. She cowers backward and he hates how much she looks like his mother. The only thing he's missing is a bottle in his hand and he suspects he would look just like his father.

His body moves on instinct and he _grabs_ her. She pushes him away but his arms wrap around her tighter. She slaps him but that only makes him hold on more forcefully. He slams her up against the door as he begs her to listen.

“Let go of me, you freak!”

“ _Please_ don't call me that!” he begs

She reaches over and grabs the glass of water on the side table and smashes it against the side of his head. Before he's even had the time to think clearly through the pain, he's pinning her up against the door with his hand firmly clasped around her throat. He covers her mouth with his other hand and pleads with her. Utterly desperate to show her that he isn't a man like his father. He would never hurt her. He would protect her from men like his father and Thomas Dougherty.

“I had to kill him. Because he hit you. Do you understand that?”

He killed the man that she loved but he was only trying to protect her! He knows that his actions hurt her- both then _and_ now- but he vows to never do it again. By the end of his explanation, he's smiling. She's no longer struggling or fighting or forcing him away. He let's go of her, expecting her to say something... but she slides down to the floor. Limp and lifeless.

“Kristen?” he says, “Oh no no no..” he pulls her close and presses his ear to her chest. She's not breathing and he doesn't hear the familiar thrum of her heartbeat. That comforting lullaby.

“Oh no...” he pulls away and turns her face towards him. Her green eyes like dull marbles.

They peer up at him from the slab she's laying on in the morgue.

The Other is mocking him. Toying with him. Taking advantage of him and assuming _control_ of his body while he slept. Showing him beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was more than some projection of impulse. All to prove a point to the more naive of them: That he is doomed to relive this scenario over and over again.

But he doesn't have to do it alone. Truthfully, he's _never_ been alone.

“ _How did it feel?”_ The Other asked him. Not about the body or the painful sobs he was choking back every time he looked at Kristen's body. No... the Other was referring to them. To himself and to Edward. How delicate and fragile and _complete_ they felt in tandem.

“Beautiful.”

The Other shuttered. Finally made real. Made valid. His own separately distinct consciousness accepted by his more corporeal sibling.

Kristen's face is looking up at him from the drainage basin. He's holding the container of Hydrochloric acid and staring down at her. The thought of having to melt everything away and having her wash away down the drain, forgotten and alone, make him sick to his stomach...

He hesitated and set the bottle aside. In the corner of the room was the suitcase he'd carried the remains of Dougherty in. He took all of the pieces of Miss Kringle and placed them neatly into the makeshift casket before cleaning up and rolling it back out towards his car. His inner voice was screaming at him to leave no trace of her and warning him that they could get caught, but he ignored it in favor of closure.

He called into work with a cold. Which, truthfully, wasn't inaccurate. He did feel _cold._ He never calls in so Captain Essen believed him without much hesitation. She even went so far as to ask if he needed soup delivered or if someone needed to take a trip to the pharmacy for him. He was flattered and even slightly taken aback as he declined her offer and assured her he only needed bed rest. That following morning, he dragged Kristen's body out to the Gotham Woods.

Burying Kristen, despite being fewer steps, was harder to do than disposing of Dougherty had been. It was like all of the world was clawing at him and putting obstacles in his way. Warning him about the path he was taking.

In his need for closure, he brought a bottle of wine and a small picnic lunch to share with her one last time. That sentimentality was going to cost him when a hunter strolled up and began asking questions. The older man became suspicious and leaned over the grave. He was just about to ask about the blood oozing out of the side of the suitcase when the shovel came down upon his head. Cracking his skull and killing him instantly.

Now Edward had _two_ bodies to dispose of.

When he comes back to the picnic, tools in hand, he notices that the food is missing and there is a trail of blood to follow. He takes the shovel with him and sets out to kill the next in a seemingly unending chain of victims. As he inches closer, his heart beats faster. There is a familiar buzz about him that he assumes is adrenaline. Like a magnet in his chest compelling him to move forward. A red string of Fate. He comes upon a trailer in the woods. He tightens his grip on the shovel and makes his way forward.

The door flings open and knocks him to the ground. He looks up to see the Penguin. Paler than normal. Blood caked to his skin and clothes. The stench of death wafting into the open from the trailer door.

“Help me.” the Penguin begs as he collapses to the ground and crumples in on himself.

Ed could just leave him there. It would be an easy cover-up for the hunter. All he has to do is drag the hunter's body out to the trailer and make it look like the Penguin killed him. The Penguin would be dead and wouldn't be able to tell anyone that he didn't. He was a known killer and a wanted man so no one would question it. Not even Jim Gordon.

But that strange pull he feels and the pounding in his chest is telling him otherwise. He can't bring himself to just leave the dying man on the ground. Stripped of his dignity and title. Resigned, he hoists the Penguin up over his shoulder and drags him back to his car.

“I'll only be a moment, Mister Penguin.” he tells him as he drapes his coat over the small man curled up in his back seat and prays he doesn't die before he returns.

He rushes back to the bodies of Kristen and the hunter. He drags the hunter to the secluded trailer with the intent of coming back to dispose of him later and buries Kristen in her shallow grave. His last goodbye being the loosely packed dirt that surrounded her.

Edward is lucky no one ever notices him. He drags the wounded bird to the elevator and up to his loft-style apartment on the top floor without so much as a glance in his direction.

He makes quick work of the Penguin's clothes. Cutting them apart and peeling the soiled fabric away and into the trash. The gunshot is messy. Based on the angle of the entry wound, the sniper was at a high elevation. Likely on a rooftop. It was easy enough to deduce that the Penguin received his injury during the raid on Theo Galavan's mayoral inauguration.

The Penguin was clever in that he knew he wouldn't be able to disguise his physical quirks that would give him away on sight. So, in all his brilliance, he dressed his goons just like him and even had them walk with a limp as they stormed the premises. The ploy was delightfully clever. Edward admired the man for his ingenuity.

He surgically removes the bullet. A .275 Rigby. Possibly shot from the same Ruger M77 that killed Arnold Dobkins a few weeks prior. Likely from one of Galavan's assassins.

He cleans the wound as thoroughly as he can and sews him back up. Despite the careful stitching, it's going to leave a nasty scar and may cause him permanent pain in his shoulder. But it would serve as a symbol to both of them. To the Penguin, it was a sign of his admirable indestructibility. And, to Edward, it would be a constant reminder of the choice he had made that night in the woods.

He doesn't have strong enough pain killers or nearly enough antibiotics to properly treat Mister Penguin's injuries. Taking him to the hospital was out of the question. Edward smooths the hair out of the man's face and sets out on his late-night venture to the Gotham Pharmacy.

It wasn't hard to break in. The back door was tucked away in an alley and the lock was easy to pick. He'd seen countless petty criminals use the same entrance and knew that the security there was laughable. He stuffs his bag full of morphine and antibiotics. He also takes a moment to restock on Modafinil while he's there. He was going to need a steady supply of Nooptropics if he was going to indulge in this new hobby of his.

In spite of saving the man, Edward hadn't gained his trust. Or even gratitude. The Penguin had been disoriented when he asked for help in the woods and had no recollection of it when he woke up. In fact, the man curled up in Edward's bed wasn't even the same man he'd met at the bullpen. This man was broken. Lost.

“My empire is in ruins.” he said, leaning heavily on a support beam while he stared out the window toward his beloved city, “I'm a wanted man with no friends. And my mother... the _one_ person I swore to protect, is dead because of _my_ weakness.”

Edward chews on the inside of his cheek. Those words ringing true for himself as well. Like he was staring into a well and the dark water was reflecting his own words back at him.

“Believe me when I tell you that this path you're on leads to nothing but destruction and pain.” he warned

Edward took a moment to consider his words. Mister Penguin was, no doubt, correct. But... what more could Edward lose? His own mother died years ago. He'd left his father to rot in prison and even changed his name so he no longer felt that familial obligation. Kristen was dead by his own hand. He'd merged his two broken halves and felt complete for the first time since he could remember, but he still felt hollow. At least the feeling of destruction and pain was _something_. It was better than feeling nothing. And Edward was content with that.

The Penguin is crying and screaming in his sleep. The man is plagued by violent night terrors about Galavan and his mother. Ed worries that the man is going to rip out his stitches and bleed to death if Edward isn't on constant lookout.

“Can't you do something to make him stop screaming?” Ed asks himself. He doesn't speak to the Other much anymore. At least, not directly. They more-or-less share a consciousness now. Edward bites at his nails.

He recalls one of Galavan's lackeys frequenting the Stacked Deck- a local pub on the border of Old Town and the docks known to be a hotspot for criminals. David Leonard, he believed his name was. He'd gotten a peek at some of the files relating to Galavan when Detective Gordon had his back turned. He was known to run around different political circles acting as a middle man between the less-than-innocent employees at City Hall and the seedy criminals of the underground. In particular, he was best known for his money laundering schemes.

“Perhaps...” Edward smiled, “He just needs a little pick-me-up.”

He couldn't bring Galavan directly to him but he could at least attempt to appease Mister Penguin's need for catharsis by providing one of his men to take revenge on. Watching his father get taken away to Blackgate had been one of the most relieving moments of his life and, now that Oswald was in a similar situation after having lost his mother, Ed wanted to give him something similar.

However, it didn't exactly go the way he thought. Oswald had awoken once more and had turned down the gift. That razor's edge temper was lost. There was something heartbreaking about it. A hole forming in his chest that he couldn't explain. He told himself he wanted to cure the Penguin of his melancholy for his own selfish reasons, but that wasn't entirely accurate.

That red string was still there. Firmly attached to both of their fingers. And Edward refused to let that string be cut.

“Mister Penguin...” he stood and confronted the nigh-intolerable flightless bird, “For some men, love is a source of strength. But for you and I, it will always be our most crippling weakness.”

“Move aside, _Ed.”_ The Penguin spat out his name like it tasted bad.

“We are better off unencumbered.”

The Penguin has to steady himself. A sharp intake of breath as he processes the words and what they mean. He begs Ed for clarification, “What did you say?”

“You said it yourself. Your mother is _dead_ because of your _weakness.”_ Ed explains, “But, what you need to realize is that your weakness... was _her.”_

There is a flash of color as he blinks and there is a knife at his throat. He can't help but feel an intense thrill at the display. That sadistic and bloodthirsty side of the man in front of him shining through the broken exterior.

Her dying was a gift given to him by Fate. Her death finally set him free of the bonds that kept him chained. She held him back... just like his own mother had. He'd abandoned the house on Waterbury but a part of him remained trapped there. Trapped with his mother behind a locked door of her own making. Her own reckless denial. Killing Kristen had been like finally letting go of his mother's ghost. He was grateful for her. So it makes sense that he would feel like Oswald should be grateful for his own mother's sacrifice too.

“My mother was a saint!” the Penguin screams, “The only person who truly cared about me and now she's gone. And I have _nothing_ left.”

“A man with nothing that he loves is a man that cannot be bargained. A man that cannot be betrayed. A man who answers to no one but himself.” He watches in awe as the Penguin processes his words. Internalizes him. Allows them to breathe life into him, “And that is the man that I see before me. A free man.”

Edward removes the switchblade from the trembling man's fingers and pockets it for later. The Penguin doesn't say anything more after that. He just gives Edward a resigned look and then curls back under the covers. At first, Edward is unsure whether or not he had actually made any progress. But then he woke up to his insufferable house guest poking him in the face to rouse him from sleep.

“I'm hungry.” the shorter man pouted, “You have a fridge filled with condiments and nothing else.”

“I haven't exactly had the opportunity to go shopping.” Edward rubbed the sleep from his eyes, “If you promise not to run off, I can go get us some Chinese from downstairs.”

The Penguin rolls his eyes, “If I ran off, who would guide you on this little misadventure you're on?”

Edward returns with far too much takeout. Oswald is searching his cabinets for what Ed assumes is anything containing alcohol. Ed rolls his eyes and pulls out the bottles he had kept for when he cooked dinner for Miss Kringle. There was a bottle of Beaujolais that, lucky for him, paired nicely with their take-out with its fruity notes and low tannins.

They spend their morning stuffing their faces full of MSG and red wine. Ed has the day off of work so he's in no rush to disrupt the friendly atmosphere. Especially now that the Penguin seems to be back to his old self.

After their bellies were sufficiently full and they had gone through all of the wine he had in his cabinet, Edward dragged the still very scared and very tied up David Leonard from the closet. The Penguin had said that a party wasn't a party without entertainment and Edward was eager to fulfill his request.

Edward pulled the knife out of his pocket and watched as the Penguin interrogated the man with all the finesses of a cobra. It seemed that Edward's instincts about the man's worth paid off. It didn't take long for the King of Gotham to extract as much information as he could about Galavan's finances before carving him apart simply because he felt like it. All the while explaining to Edward the best methods for this kind of interrogation. Which tendons to sever to keep them from running. Which wounds caused the most pain while also being the least lethal, prolonging the process and giving them ample time to enjoy themselves.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Oswald asked, artfully smearing blood across his face. Ed felt warmth in his core at the sight of it. Oswald was truly... beautiful. In that moment, at least. It wasn't unusual to think that.

“Of course.” Edward took the knife and positioned himself in front of the flayed man. Leonard's organs were in his lap but his heart was still beating. He was no longer conscious but he was very much still alive.

Edward began running through all of the various ways in which he could kill the man. He could stab him directly in his beating heart. It was there. Exposed to the open air. Easy, but predictable. He could... he could...

His hands are trembling.

He can't bring himself to commit the act. Not that he didn't want to. He certainly wasn't above murder. But he suddenly found himself feeling naked. Exposed. Oswald Cobblepot, The Penguin, the _King of Gotham_ was watching him. Waiting for him. Judging him and his inexperience.

He suddenly becomes hyper-aware of his own breathing and clamps his mouth shut. The more Edward focused on how uncomfortable he was, the tighter his chest got. His limbs tingled and the corners of his vision blurred.

The only thing that snapped him back into the moment... was Oswald. The smaller man, gloriously dipped in blood, was holding his hand.

Edward exhaled. And Oswald stared...

For a moment, Edward allowed himself to believe that the Penguin saw him. Truly saw him. He could see that quivering child hiding beyond the monstrous exterior but accepted him anyway. Oswald guided Edward's hand towards the dying man's carotid artery. The knife plunged through flesh. The blood leaking down the man's already soaking wet shirt front like a syrupy fountain.

Their bodies shuttered in unison when the last of Leonard's life was drained from him. He looked down at his friend and they both stood there and admired one another. Just enjoying the other's company in comfortable silence.

Edward's mother often talked about Twin Flames. Soulmates. Edward had assumed that Miss Kringle was his. That initial euphoria after meeting her and believing it was love at first sight made him think that, if he had one, it would be her.

But, in fact... it was Oswald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story ran away with me. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Also, my current goal is to alternate between this story and TDOMJVD now that NaNoWriMo is over. I'm still not great at scheduling these but I wrote a _lot_ this month and will hopefully be able to post more than once a month. I make no promises though. I'm kind of a disaster.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Active warning for this chapter: Casual self-harm. It's brief.
> 
> I spent way too many hours staring at this chapter. It's probably the longest one in this story (It's at over 9k) and I am only kinda sorry about that. I tried splitting it into two but there wasn't a point I felt like I could cut it where both chapters would feel satisfying.

“ _I wanted only to try to live in accord with the promptings which came from my true self._

_Why was that so very difficult?”_

-Herman Hesse _(Demian)_

Soulmates aren't always lovers. Oswald certainly wasn't _that_. Even _if_ Edward was interested in him that way, a man like the Penguin wouldn't think twice about someone like him. Nor did he require the unnecessary baggage that came with it. But, to Edward, this monument of a man completed him in a way that even the most satisfying of puzzles could hold no candle to. The Penguin made his atoms buzz, electrified his skin, and drowned his brain in dopamine.

Edward shook the dangerous thoughts from his mind and turned his attention back to the mindless task of the dishes. Oswald didn't have much to do while he was recovering so he had taken to making some rather _interesting_ sandwiches. An alarming amount of dishes were piled high in the sink and the Penguin had zero interest in cleaning up after himself. Though in his defense, the faucet was temperamental and he'd broken it on more than one occasion.

“Who puts spicy mustard and sardines on a sandwich?” Edward asked, scrubbing at a plate.

“When you grow up as poor as I did, you develop odd tastes.” the Penguin shrugged.

Ed resisted the urge to correct him on his assumption. Oswald wasn't the only one who grew up below the poverty line. Most days, especially after the death of his mother, all Edward had to eat was what was served to him at Hilltop. Though he supposed he was still better off than most of the kids in the immigrant district.

“We adapt to survive.” Edward nodded, drying his hands and turning toward his friend who was sprawled out on the couch, “I could cook for you if you'd like.”

“You cook?” Oswald was holding the pair of glasses Edward had presented to him the other day and was examining them, “And here I thought you were just a pretty face.”

Edward felt himself blush and quietly chastised himself for how his own blood betrayed him, “I never saw the point in cooking for one.”

Edward looked up to see that his houseguest was wearing the cat-eye glasses. They looked good on him. The dark frames slid down the bridge of his beak-like nose. Ed cleared his throat.

“Oh,” Oswald took that as a cue to remove them. He held them reverently in his hands, “You said you felt gratitude when you looked at them. Can I ask why?”

“Because her sacrifice is what made me,” Ed explained, “If I hadn't killed her, I wouldn't be who I am now. I wouldn't be this close to discovering who I was meant to be.”

_And I wouldn't have found you,_ he thought. If he hadn't of been in those woods he never would have stumbled upon the wounded bird. It had been Fate that brought them together, after all.

“That is quite the deranged justification for killing your girlfriend.” Mister Penguin stated, rather coldly.

“Deranged seems a strong word.” Edward glared.

That was one thing that he was growing tired of: Oswald's bluntness. For all his sentimentality and eloquent speech, he got right to the heart of matters. Carving through the fat to get to the core of what needed to be said. Often with a sharpness that was harsher than Ed was prepared for.

“It is rather crazy to reduce an entire woman's life to mean nothing more than an obstacle on the way to your own self-discovery.” Mister Penguin didn't budge in his explanation. Knowing full well how much it pained his protégé, “At least when that person meant so much to you before. Her being the love of your life, and all that.”

“You could say the same about Miss Mooney.” Ed countered, “You said she was like a mother to you. And yet killing her is what helped make you. Isn't that equally deranged?”

“It is,” Oswald admitted with a firm nod of his head, “My own retrospection on it has made it easy to point out in others.”

“Is it crazy?” Edward spoke more to himself than to Oswald. He chewed at his nails.

“Very.” Oswald took a long pull of his wine, “But, who am I to judge?”

* * *

Oswald was in the shower when Ed arrived with the groceries. He planned on making salmon and asparagus with lemon for them that evening. The Penguin, much like his namesake, favored fish over most other foods. Edward didn't have a preference. He was just excited that he had the opportunity to cook.

He poured a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and placed it on the table near his mentor's preferred seat. Oswald chuckled when he approached- His hair pleasantly disheveled and his skin slightly pink from his shower- and thanked him for the drink.

“I know you prefer red, but I thought this would go well with dinner tonight.”

“I'm sure it will,” he set the glass down and wrapped the robe tighter around his form. He always ran cold and often borrowed Ed's bathrobe to wear around the apartment. He let out a contented sigh and buried his nose into the plush fabric of the collar. He inhaled and closed his eyes.

Ed smiled, mildly confused by the display, “You keep smelling my robe.”

“You smell nice,” Oswald blushed at how his words could have been interpreted, “Mint. Almost makes me want to change my cologne.”

“Why is that?” Ed asked, choosing to ignore the tinge of pink on Oswald's cheeks.

“I've been told by a great number of people that my choice in cologne is less than pleasant.”

“It's just strong. Patchouli, right?”

“Yes. My mother wore it.”

“Patchouli is also a mint, technically. It's often used in mortuaries to cover up the smell of rotting bodies because of how overpowering and pungent it is.” Ed smiled, “It fits you. Poetic, in its own way.”

“Yes... because everywhere I go, I leave behind a trail of corpses.” Oswald spat.

“Then we're the same,” Ed interjected, “You and I.”

“Yes... I suppose you're right.” his expression softened as he nuzzled back into the comfort of Ed's robe.

They decided to spend their evening at the piano after dinner. Oswald had difficulty reading music but he did know one song.

“My mother worked as a housekeeper when I was younger. Before I was born, she told me that she once worked for a family that had a piano. Their son had taken a liking to her and taught her how to play it.” Oswald spoke as one hand played the simple melody.

“May I?” Edward gestured to the open space on the bench.

Oswald nodded and then continued playing. Edward, after getting a feel for the tempo his friend had set, rolled his fingers across the keys and began playing the complementary harmony.

“ _Heart and soul, I fell in love with you. Heart and soul, the way a fool would, madly...”_ Oswald sag as he played, _“Because you held me tight and stole a kiss in the night.”_

Edward maintained the steady rhythm of his playing as he turned to watch his friend. He was grateful he could play by feel alone. He joined in at the second verse, _“Heart and soul, I begged to be adored. Lost control, and tumbled overboard, gladly that magic night we kissed...”_

Oswald hit a wrong key and chuckled at his mistake, “I'm afraid I don't play often enough to actually be any good at it.”

“You played just fine.”

Oswald stood and poured himself another glass of wine, “Play me something.”

“Any requests?” Edward smiled, cracking his knuckles and playing a brief arpeggio to warm up his fingers.

“Surprise me.”

Edward took a moment to consider. He hadn't played much in recent years. The piano had been left by the previous owner and tucked away into a closet. He hadn't been properly motivated to move it out into his living space until Oswald arrived.

He hadn't realized that he'd started playing until the first notes Chopin's _Étude Op. 25, No. 5_ fell on his ears. Oswald cocked his head and frowned slightly at the off sounding discordant tones. But, as the song progressed, the bittersweet melancholy of the song became more apparent. The complexity of the poetry hidden within the music was not lost on him.

Edward couldn't help but think of his own mother as he played. Chopin was one of her favorites and she played him often when his father was out of the house- Usually getting drunk at some bar in Park Row. The aggressive bitterness in the way she played the _Étude_ often made Ed cry when she thought he wasn't looking.

His eyes were stinging by the time he reached the second verse. The warmer tones swung like a pendulum between longing and sadness and an emotion Edward couldn't quite place. A confusing knot formed in his gut.

The final notes faded and were quickly drowned out by his audience of one clapping.

“That was beautiful, Ed.” Oswald smiled, “You're so talented. It's hard to imagine you being bad at anything.”

“There are plenty of things I'm not good at.” Ed frowned, “Like making friends. And keeping my loved ones alive... and not being a complete waste of space most of the time.”

Calloused fingers dug into Ed's jaw. The Penguin's grip was like a vice. He turned Edward's face towards the mirror in front of the piano.

“That is the face of a man not to be trifled with.” he spoke with insistence, “Least of all by himself.”

“I'll try and remember that, Mister Penguin.”

“If you don't, I'll be sure to remind you.” he sat down on the couch, “Now. I think it might be time for your first lesson.”

Edward joined him on the couch with his own glass of wine. They spoke in length about Ed's strengths. They went over all of the details from the moment he'd killed Dougherty to the plan he enacted to dispose of his body. Edward even showed him the trophy he'd kept. Oswald didn't seem all that impressed by it.

“Why would you go through the trouble of destroying all trace of Officer Dougherty and then ruin it by keeping something so incriminating in your apartment?”

“I wanted to keep something to remember it.” he fiddled with the badge and relished the weight of it in his hands.

“I thought you had a photographic memory?” Oswald nudged his forehead playfully

“I do... I guess... I thought that maybe if I _did_ get caught, there should be something that proved it _was_ me.” he chuckled at his own misfortune, “I'd imagine everyone would just laugh at the idea otherwise. Poor little Ed Nygma and his weird little riddles couldn't hurt a fly let alone be strong enough to protect someone that he cares about.”

“While I understand where you're coming from, I have to warn you that that is an incredibly foolish idea.” he set the empty glass of wine aside on the table, “Is that also why you kept the glasses?”

“No... I just...missed her. I wanted to keep a piece of her was all.” Edward shifted uncomfortably.

“You should celebrate the fact that no one sees you.” Oswald told him, “It makes it easier to operate in plain sight.”

“No doubt you're right.”

“Of course I'm right. It's how you were able to dispose of the bodies in the first place.”

“It's also how I got rid of the last medical examiner,” Ed smirked

“Oh?” Oswald raised his eyebrows toward his hairline, “Did you kill him too?”

“No. But he got me suspended because I could do his job better than he could. So, I filled his locker with body parts from the morgue and forged a telephone log that linked him to some black market dealers.”

“See! You're a natural,” he beamed, “I really do look forward to working with you. Once I've gotten my Empire back, there won't be anything that could stop us.”

Edward preened at the praise. It was certainly something to look forward to.

_He wants you to be his sidekick._

Edward swallowed as he heard that invasive voice slither up his spine. He assumed it had been gone for good, but it seemed he was mistaken.

* * *

The voice kept him up most of the night. He was so exhausted that he couldn't focus at work. It took him twice as long to complete simple tasks and he kept having to start over with his analysis. It was late by the time he'd returned home the following evening. Oswald wasn't usually a night owl but he hadn't gone to sleep yet. Instead, he was seated on the bed reading _The Metamorphosis_ by Franz Kafka.

“You're still up?” Ed asked, loosening the knot on his tie and tossing it onto the floor. He toed off his shoes and dramatically flung his long legs up onto the couch.

Oswald smirked at the mess of a man in front of him, “I figured it was polite to wait for you.”

“You need more rest than I do. You're still recovering.” Edward rubbed at his eyes.

“Yes, but you haven't slept properly in days. I know that couch isn't comfortable. You should sleep in your bed.”

“Nuh-uh. Out of the question. You need the bed more than I do.” he yawned

“Don't be ridiculous, Ed. I'm not sleeping on the couch either. There's no rule stating that we can't just share the bed.” Oswald insisted, clapping the book closed.

Edward gave him a look, “I thought you didn't want me to be too close?”

“That was before you saved my life.” he rolled his eyes, “Come now. Don't be stubborn.”

* * *

Something tickled at his nose. Groggily, he pried open his eyes and found Oswald comfortably tucked under his chin. He must have grown cold at some point in the night and gravitated over to Edward's side of the bed. He was curled into the fetal position with his arms tightly wound around his thin frame.

Edward chuckled at how childlike the Penguin seemed when he slept. He was all fury and malignance when awake and yet practically infantile when asleep. The real Oswald Cobblepot existed somewhere in the middle of those two extremes.

...And, of course, he was nothing without his more annoying tendencies.

“Did you try jiggling the handle?” Edward turned away from the work on his desk and held the phone firmly to his ear. He was regretting giving Oswald his cellphone number.

“You don't think I tried that already?” Oswald scoffed, his nasal voice was metallic and coppery over the phone, “It's been clogged since this morning.”

“Well, what did you put down it?” Ed couldn't hide the irritation in his voice. Most of the appliances in his apartment were jerry-rigged into mostly working order. Oswald had a knack for breaking everything and forcing Ed to fix it once he got home. Today was the toilet.

He spotted movement out of the corner of his eye and didn't bother waiting for a response from the other end of the phone. He closed it and spun back towards the files on his desk.

“Doctor Thompkins, can I help you?”

“Hi, Ed. This is the autopsy on the dead monk,” she handed over the file and case notes, “Jim wants you to run toxicology.”

Ed inhaled sharply at the photographs. The man was covered from head to toe in scars and deep lacerations, “Fascinating. The need to inflict that kind of pain on oneself,” he looked up at the medical examiner, “Is there anything else?”

“No,” she gave him a polite smile and started walking away. She stopped partway and turned back towards his desk, “Uh... Yes. Was that Kristen you were just talking to?”

“What?” Ed feigned ignorance

“Sorry. It sounded like you were talking to someone in your apartment. And who besides-”

“-I was talking to my plumber.” Ed rolled his eyes at her incessant prying.

“Oh,” she held her head down, defeated, “Well, have you heard from Kristen? I know she said she was sick. I was thinking of stopping by-”

“-As it happens, she's not sick,” he interrupted, “She lied. To all of us.” he allowed the deception to roll off his tongue, “I just found out. Miss Kringle left town with Officer Dougherty.”

“She left Gotham with _Dougherty?”_ she asked in utter disbelief

“Mmm-hmm.” he bit down on the inside of his cheek.

“But he was abusive,” her nose crinkled at the thought.

“ _Love.”_ he scoffed. It was almost comical how believable the story seemed to him. He'd witnessed plenty of tragedy as a result of love in his life. Her skipping town with a brute like him seemed like a likely outcome. Come to think of it, she might have done exactly that if the right guy waltzed into her life. She could never be with someone like Ed in the long-term. He was foolish to think otherwise.

“Well... I-I'm stunned.” she stammered, shifting on the balls of her feet.

They're interrupted once more by the sound of Ed's phone ringing. _Who's Sorry Now?_ by Connie Francis played awkwardly between them. He's at least thankful that Mister Penguin was calling him from the house phone and not his personal cell. It would be an unfortunate waste to have to kill Doc Thompkins because she caught a glimpse of the caller ID. She was an excellent medical examiner and, best of all, she valued his work ethic. She was one of the few people who appreciated his work. Ed turned towards the good doctor and flashed her an irritated smile.

“Do you need to get that?” she asked, gesturing to the phone as it danced around the table.

“No. I don't think so.” he rolled his eyes and tapped the end of his pen nervously on the desk.

Lee gave him a concerned look. Improvisation wasn't his strong suit, but he needed to think quickly on his feet or she was going to uncover something. She was the motherly type. What should he do to distract her? Oh, yes... _cry._

“Oh, Ed. You must be devastated.” she placed her hands on his trembling shoulders.

“Right now, I'm just trying to focus on the job.” he spoke through fake tears.

“Well, let me know if you ever want to talk.” she rubbed circled into his back.

“Thank you. That means a lot.” he turned his head away from her so she wouldn't see his smirk.

She sighed and then made her way down the staircase towards the bullpen. Ed glared at her the whole way.

Mister Penguin was right. Being invisible had its perks. Ed gnashed his teeth as he stalked her through the remainder of her shift. She flitted in and out of conversations that didn't even concern her. She was gathering intel. Ed could tell that much. She was frustratingly asking all of the other officers if they had heard from Officer Dougherty.

She was spreading unease. Like a virus. Before too long, the GCPD would discover that the two lovebirds were missing and they would blame Ed. He was the common thread connecting them. He also had means and motive.

“Why did you keep her glasses to begin with?” Oswald scolded him over the phone.

“I _told_ you...” he huffed, “I loved Miss Kringle. Just get rid of them. Doctor Thompkins is suspicious.”

Oswald hung up on him without another word. No doubt he was berating him. Possibly lamenting the idiocy of his protégé. Edward leaned up against the wall in the hallway outside the Forensics Lab and sighed.

“ _It was a pretty amateur mistake.”_ his reflection stepped out of the shadows, _“He probably thinks you're an idiot.”_

“Go away.” Ed rubbed at his eyes.

“ _Maybe he'll like me better.”_

“I thought we were better off working together.” he nervously ran his fingers through his hair. His mind was pulling him in too many directions at once.

“ _Please, all you do is slow me down.”_

“Would you just-”

“Ed?” Lee stepped into the hallway. She looked around the empty space by the door, “Are you talking to someone?”

“Doctor Thompkins! I... uh...” he adjusted his glasses and pocketed his phone, “No. I just have a lot on my mind right now.”

“I don't blame you.” she gave him a sad look. He bit down the compulsion to yell at her for pitying him, “Don't stay too late. I know you want the distraction but you should go home and get some rest.”

* * *

When Ed arrived back up at the apartment, there was a strange man there. Oswald was wearing a freshly pressed suit. Edward was happy to see that Mister Penguin had chosen to wear the tie he had gifted him. The green and teal one with the paisley pattern. Ed liked how it resembled malachite in the right light. Oswald had lamented not having his armor and Ed, in an attempt to assuage his bad mood, had bought him a suit. It still needed to be tailored to his smaller frame, but it was something.

“Ed, this is Gabe.” Mister Penguin slammed the bottle of wine down on the table, “Don't wait up for me tonight.”

“You're leaving?” Edward gasped. Gabe chuckled and Ed couldn't help but glare at him. What was he laughing at? This was a very serious matter! The Penguin hadn't fully recovered.

“Galavan has been set free,” Oswald growled

“So I heard.” Edward tore his ire away from Oswald's lackey and took several confident steps closer towards his friend, “Detective Gordon was at the trial and caused a bit of a scene. It seems you both share a hatred for him.”

“That we do.” Oswald chewed on his bottom lip in contemplation, “Gabe had Galavan followed. We're going there now.”

“I'm coming with you.” Ed's eyes sparkled

“No. I need you here.”

“But-”

“-I don't have time, Ed. Just wait here.” Oswald's tone was harsh and irritated, “If I have need of you, I'll call.”

_He said he doesn't need you._

“Okie dokie.”

_You should let me take over._

“I'll be here.”

_I'm more useful to him._

Edward swallowed the lump in his throat as he watched Oswald leave with his lackey. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath. Mister Penguin had his reasons for not wanting him there and Ed would respect them. No matter what that nagging voice in the back of his mind told him.

* * *

Sleep evaded him. In part, due to the nootropics he insisted on taking to keep his mind sharp as a razor. Several hours had passed since Mister Penguin left to confront Galavan. Ed's phone remained distressingly silent. He was resigned to wait out the remainder of the evening in quiet agony.

Since moving out of his family home on Waterbury, he'd taken up the hobby of knife collecting. The first one he'd ever received was an AFO Tanto. It had been a gift from one of his classmates in college. Which was generous given how expensive it was. The blade was simple, elegant, and had a precise auto mechanism. It proved useful during his altercation with Officer Dougherty. It was unfortunate that he had to dispose of the knife shortly after.

The one in his hand was an antique. A nine-inch Italian stiletto switchblade with a polished, cherry handle. The wood had darkened with age. Much like Ed had over the years, so the knife held some sentimental value. Especially now. It was the knife that Mister Penguin had almost used to slit his throat. It was also the same one they used to carve open Galavan's lacky.

With the press of a button, the blade unfolded in his palm. The bright green light from the window reflected on the steel edge. He pressed the point of the blade into the tip of his thumb and marveled at the bead of crimson that formed.

There were loud footsteps outside the door.

The door slid open and in walked Mister Penguin and Gabe, who had someone thrown over his shoulder. For a moment, Edward wondered if Oswald had ordered that Galavan be brought to the apartment so that they could torture him together. Edward's heart leaped into his chest but then immediately shattered when he saw the face of Detective James Gordon. He gasped.

“I did not find an opportunity to call or I would have.” Oswald explained, “Theo Galavan escaped. Luckily, Jim might know where he's gone to so I felt it necessary to bring him here.”

“Don't you think it's a little early to be revealing that we know each other?”

“Jim is more like us than you think.” Oswald smirked, devilishly, “All he needs is the right push.”

Edward needed something to do with his hands. He needed to feel like he was useful so he took it upon himself to check Jim's vitals. His ribs were bruised. Possibly broken. His breathing and heart rate were normal which meant his lungs and other internal organs were likely fine. Judging by the bruising on his face, he probably had a concussion. He _should_ err on the side of caution and try and wake him in order to do a proper assessment of his overall health. Ed rolled his eyes and went to put the kettle on. The running water disguised the groan that rumbled at the back of his throat.

The Penguin dismissed Gabe with a set of instructions to the Underworld. Even with his Empire in shambles, he still had resources tucked away and men at his side. Ed patted himself on the back knowing that _he_ was the reason that the Penguin had returned. If he hadn't of _given him the right push_ , he might have left Gotham altogether and Galavan would have burned it to the ground and reshaped it in his image.

Neither man slept. Penguin was far too aggravated to rest and Ed had too many drugs in his system to allow himself the comfort. Instead, they watched as Detective Gordon slumbered away on their bed. Well... _Ed's_ bed.

Sirens and the blaring of car horns could be heard just outside the window, signaling the start of a typical Gotham morning. Jim, right on cue, woke with a start. Ed and Oswald were at the piano singing and guffawing at their own amusement. Hesitant, Jim pulled himself from the bed and began limping his way towards the exit. The Penguin, of course, had other plans.

The two men spoke as if Edward wasn't there and it made his blood boil. He _hated_ how easy it was for other people to just ignore his existence. He could feel the muscles at the back of his eyes tense as he waited patiently- like a good little lap dog- for the two more experienced men to finish their conversation.

“You and I share a bond in Theo Galavan- _a passion_ , if you will.” the Penguin leaned heavily on the metal bed frame. He was exhausted. Edward wondered how much pain he was in after the night he had, “If there was ever a time for us to work together, now is that time.”

Jim stared at him for much longer than Ed felt was necessary. The look he was giving him made Ed's skin crawl. He sighed, “What's your plan?”

Ed, in a moment of impulse, pounded away at the keyboard. The first angry notes of _Dies iræ clanged_ loudly through the apartment. Oswald squawked at the sudden interruption. Edward cleared his throat and then spun around.

“Apologies, gentlemen. But I should probably get going. It wouldn't bode well for any of us if I also suddenly disappeared.” He stood and clasped his hands behind his back, “Will you be needing anything from me, Mister Penguin?”

Oswald's expression softened and it made the knot in Ed's stomach loosen, “No, Ed. Thank you for keeping me company. It was a welcomed relief being able to get my mind off of things.”

“Happy to oblige.” Edward smiled in return. Jim's gaze shifted between the two to them before he rolled his eyes and sighed. Ed ignored him and fetched his coat and badge.

“Nygma, could you let Lee know where I am? She's probably worried.” Jim asked before he could reach the door.

“Is that smart?” Ed turned with a glare. The last thing he wanted was _more_ guests at his apartment.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Jim tilted his chin upward. He looked almost smug. Like he was waiting for Ed to slip up.

“No reason.” he flashed a smile and then gave a mock salute, “I'll deliver the message.”

* * *

Theo Galavan wasted little time spreading chaos through the city's underbelly. As a result, Captain Barnes and several of the other officers were scrambling for tangible proof of his criminal activity. They were banking on their ability to get a warrant to search Galavan's property, but they were limited by the confines of their own rules. Mister Penguin's plans to utilize Falcone's former associates as well as his own were guaranteed to bring the tyrant down by night's end.

Eavesdropping onto their conversation was easy. He'd done it countless times before. Especially recently. Mister Pennyworth seemed to be on the right trail when it came to dealing with the problem at hand.

“Are two men enough? It wouldn't seem so, but violence is not my métier.” a man that Ed didn't recognize spoke.

“No. Two men are not enough.” Harvey agreed with them.

“I would gladly join you, but I imagine an amateur is no asset. A hindrance, perhaps.” the stranger replied.

Edward bit his tongue at how much he related to that statement.

“That's very true. We need Jim Gordon.” Pennyworth piped in.

Ed bit down hard enough he could taste copper. Why did everyone need _Jim Gordon?_ Why was he so central to this entire plot?

“He's perfect for this kind of thing. Where is he?” Mister Pennyworth reiterated

“Yeah... Where _is_ Jim Gordon? It's a long story, but nobody knows.” Harvey scoffed

Ed felt his laughter bubble to the surface. Like he'd remembered the punchline to a joke he heard earlier.

“Somethin' funny, Ed?” Detective Bollock called out, angered by Ed's sudden outburst.

“Do you know where Gordon is?” The Butler suddenly rose and took several steps towards him

_Oh dear._

“Do you?” Bollock pointed and accusing finger at him.

“Start speaking with us.”

“Umm... uh..” Ed stammered, “A diamond plate, a glowing grate, a place you never leave. Where am I?”

“...Wha?”

“Home.” the unfamiliar man answered, “Whose home? _Your_ home? Gordon's at your home?”

“N-no... Yes.” Ed swallowed, overwhelmed by the man's rapid-fire inquiries and stoic gaze, “Who are you?”

“We bloody don't have time for this. My boy is in danger.” Pennyworth held up a hand and turned toward the startled forensic tech, “Can you take us to him?”

Ed clutched the clipboard to his chest, “Follow me.”

He led them down a less-than-straightforward path to the forensics lab in the hopes that, if there were eyes following them, they could at least lie.

“Alright, Ed, I am in _no mood_ for lolly gaggin'. So can it with the dumb riddles and tell us where Jim is.” Harvey locked the door behind them

“He's allied with the Penguin to take down Theo Galavan.” the truth spilled from his mouth. He was far too intimidated by the three men to try and lie now.

“With _Penguin?”_ Harvey groaned and ground his teeth, “Goddammit, Jim...”

“They along with Mister Penguin's men are currently at my apartment preparing to storm Galavan's penthouse,” Ed told them.

“Why are they at your place?” Harvey's eyes narrowed

“Because, _Detective Bollock_ , Galavan is a monster.” his voice rumbled in a way that was satisfying and he relished the way Harvey reeled back at the change in his tone, “But the criminal justice system in this city is laughable. He'll never see the inside of a cell unless we intervene and I want him taken down just like the rest of you. I would have done more to help but, as was already stated... an amateur is a hindrance at best.”

He hated how much he agreed.

* * *

Edward felt like a stranger in his own home. Racks of guns and piles of ammo were strewn about. Based on the level of firepower, Ed suspected that he would most likely be seeing some of them at the Morgue the following day.

Mister Penguin and Detective Gordon continued to argue over the best course of action to take. Jim, as expected, had doubled back on his previous plans and insisted that they put the fate of Galavan into the hands of the law. If Edward's childhood had taught him anything, it was that the law was not to be trusted. Not without a not-so-gentle nudge.

Mister Penguin deserved justice for the death of his mother and, if Edward had anything to do with it, he would make sure that Galavan paid.

“I get the feeling that you don't want my help.” Ed leaned against the kitchenette next to several drums of .45-calibre Tommy gun ammunition.

“Don't be ridiculous, Ed. You are still my ally in all of this. I just...” his voice trailed, eyes darting around as he tried to strangle the right words out of the air.

“You just... what?” Ed adjusted his posture, shrugging his shoulders. He knew that Mister Penguin didn't really have a use for him. None of them did. He was years out of practice and knew he couldn't fire a gun with any real accuracy. But he could sneak into places. They were allowing that street kid- Selena Kyle- to follow them into the lion's den, so why was he being left behind?

“I can't explain it,” Oswald finally confessed, “But I... I want to keep you safe. It would be a shame if you were to die before you reached your potential. Besides, if something goes wrong, I need someone I can trust waiting for me in the wings.”

“Very well, Mister Penguin.” the tips of his ears burned. Oswald Cobblepot, _The Penguin,_ trusted _him._

Jim gave them a knowing look alongside the stranger from before- Lucius Fox, who finally introduced himself as a Junior Executive for Wayne Enterprises and an accomplished scientist for Wayne Tech. Ed chose to ignore their questioning glances and instead busied himself with helping to pack the remaining guns and improvised weaponry.

Unmarked cars barreled down the alleyway towards Downtown. Ed chewed at his nails and marred the skin on his knuckles as he watched the black 1955 Imperial containing his friend run the red light. His eyes burned. He'd been awake for close to forty-eight hours by that point. Hopefully, Mister Penguin had gotten some sleep before leaving. He wasn't as used to functioning on dangerously low levels of sleep like Ed was.

“A circle, a rebound, and a triumphant comeback. What am I?” Mister Fox's voice startled him. He'd almost forgotten that he wasn't alone.

“A return.” Ed gave him a fond grin. People didn't usually indulge him in his love of riddles. It was straightforward and not as well thought out as some of Ed's own, but the attempt was appreciated.

“I'm no expert on these sorts of things, but they have the manpower. I'm sure they'll come home safely.”

“Of course he- _they_ will.”

“You just seemed worried about your friend.” Lucius raised an eyebrow

“I'm not worried about Detective Gordon...” Ed felt bile creep up his throat as he said the name.

“I wasn't referring to Gordon.” he shook his head, dismissing the conversation, “You know what... Nevermind. It's none of my business.”

Ed scanned his features. Mister fox's stoicism was difficult to read but there was definitely a hint some something there. It made Ed feel cornered. Like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

“You're right. It is none of your business.” he said, tone flattened

“It was a pleasure meeting you Mister Nygma.” he gave a curt nod before vacating the apartment.

Edward looked around and sighed. There were clumps of mud and stray bullets littering the wooden floors. He thought about cleaning it up. Giving himself something to occupy his time... but somehow staring at the window and waiting for the parade of unmarked cars to return seemed more appealing to him.

* * *

The sun was rising by the time Mister Penguin returned. He was limping more than usual. Blood was caked in his hair and in the fur around his collar. He smelled of sweat and gunpowder.

“What happened?”

“Jim killed Theo Galavan.” the corner of Oswald's lips curl upward. His eyes were dark and sparkling. Like he'd just won a war.

“What?” Edward snarled. The pleasure of killing Theo Galavan should have been reserved for the Penguin and no one else. If Ed had been there, he never would have allowed that to happen.

“He wanted to take him away in cuffs but I helped him see reason.” he explained and took a deep breath, “We took him to the docks. I beat him senseless with a bat and I had every intention of bashing in his skull, but...”

“But?”

“But Jim shot him.” Oswald stared at the floor.

Ed clenched his fists, “I suppose this helps us get rid of your Jim Gordon problem.”

“What do you mean?” he peered up at his friend suddenly.

“Well, assuming Jim used his personal sidearm, those bullets are standard issue for GCPD officers. Forensics will find the bullet and trace the striations back to his gun.”

“No,” Oswald shook his head, “Ed, I need you to dispose of that.”

“What? Why?” he snarled

“Jim _cannot_ be blamed!”

“Mister Penguin, you can't-”

“-Please, Ed. I need you to do this for me.” Ed hated that pleading look in his eye.

“Weren't you the one who berated me for being so reckless?”

“This is different.”

“Different how?”

“I owe Jim a great debt.” he explained, “We were both born anew that day on the pier and I feel that we have become something of a kindred spirit. Besides... he has a child on the way.” he huffed out that last part. Ed spotted the telltale signs of disgust hidden in his expression.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Ed sneered

“A child deserves the love of both of its parents.” Oswald looked sad, “I refuse to take that away from them.”

Edward ground his teeth. Blood rumbled in his ears.

“Promise me you'll dispose of the evidence,” Oswald asked, persistent in his request.

“You can count on me.” Ed swallowed what felt like pins and needles.

“Thank you, my friend,” he smiled sadly, “I'm going into hiding. You likely won't hear from me for some time.”

“Where will you go?” Ed asked

“It's best if you don't know.” he stared at the floor, “Captain Barnes and the others will no doubt question you on my whereabouts. I don't want the burden of knowing where I am to harm you in any way.”

“That's awfully pragmatic of you.” Ed understood the need to keep his location a secret, but Ed couldn't help but feel a little betrayed. If Mister Penguin did, in fact, trust him... then why was he so hesitant to include him?

Oswald nodded, “This is goodbye for now.”

“Wait...” Ed rushed to his closet and returned with a hat, some gloves, and a warmer coat, “It's not what you normally wear so it should act as a disguise. It'll also keep you warm. It's supposed to snow.”

“You're so thoughtful,” he smiled, accepting the gifts, “My mother would have loved you.”

“I would have loved to meet her,” Ed felt a familiar pang in his chest and inhaled, “Alright. Go. Chop chop. If the GCPD suspects anything, they know we're acquainted and will come here first thing.”

Bundled up in his warmer garments, Oswald limped toward the door, “Stay safe, Ed. Don't do anything reckless while I'm away.”

* * *

Captain Barnes threw the photographs of Officer Pinkney in front of him. Edward didn't so much as flinch. Instead, he examined the head wound like he would have had he of been working forensics on that case. Which... he _had._ It was the perfect arrangement. Most serial killers are compelled to keep trophies from their kills and return to the scene of the crime. Ed was able to accomplish both without anyone batting an eye. Working in plain sight, just as Mister Penguin had advised him to do.

However, Edward's lackadaisical attitude faltered when Barnes placed the photographs of the recovered remains of Kristen Kringle on the table. Edward had been unwilling to give her the same treatment he gave Officer Dougherty. She was too precious to him and he realized he couldn't dissolve her in acid and powder her bones. He opted to bury her and give himself some semblance of closure. He wanted a grave to return to. He didn't have one for his mother. His father had abandoned her body at the morgue. She was cremated and tossed away into some mass grave of ashes along with all of the other unclaimed bodies. There was nowhere Ed could return to aside from painful memories. He wanted Kristen's grave to serve that purpose, in a weird way.

A droplet of water fell on the photograph of Kristen's body stuffed into the suitcase.

“Tears? Really?” Captain Barnes mocked his pain.

“Tell us why you did it, you sick freak!” Harvey shouted

“I-It was an accident!” Ed hastily wiped away tears. It was a difficult task to accomplish with his hands chained to the table.

“How is _this_ an accident!” the detective shoved the photograph of Kristen's severed head in Ed's face.

Edward wailed in agony. This wasn't how this was supposed to go.

“We found this at your apartment.” Captain Barnes slid the police badge across the table, “Where is Officer Dougherty, Nygma?”

“He hurt her.” Edward shook, “She was covered in bruises and he had the nerve to say she deserved it!”

“This is a simple enough story to piece together, Captain." Harvey explained, “Tom Dougherty was beatin' on our girl Kringle so this bozo took it upon yourself to take him out. News flash, _dummy,_ That's not how you impress a girl!”

“GRRAAH-I stood up to him!” Ed growled, “I sat outside her apartment and I waited for him. I told him to leave her alone and he assaulted me.”

“So you're claiming that you killed him in self-defense?” Captain Barnes gawked at him. As if the audacity of Edward's story offended him at his core.

Edward remained quiet. He tried tumbling into the reflection of the table but, this time, the Other was nowhere to be found. He'd even been abandoned by himself.

“Answer the fucking question!” Barnes slammed his fists on the table.

“It was an accident.” Ed choked back another sob.

“Oh, great. Another accident.” the Captain scoffed.

“It was... at first... I think I might have lost my mind a little.”

“A little?” Harvey chimed in. He mumbled more insults under his breath.

“Ed, if he attacked you and you defended yourself, you should have come straight here. Turned yourself in.”

“I wanted to...”

“Why didn't you?”

Ed glared, “I would have been dead before the sun came up.”

“I wouldn't have let anything happen to you.” Captain Barnes spoke in an offensively reassuring tone. Like a disappointed father.

Edward laughed, “You honestly think you have all of these cops under your wing? Do you know how long some of them have been waiting for an excuse to get rid of me? Add _cop killer_ to the string of insults and I wouldn't last.”

“He's got a point,” Harvey admitted. Even he could barely stand the forensic tech.

“You should have encouraged Kringle to report Dougherty's behavior to your superiors. I wouldn't have tolerated it. He would have been suspended.”

“You really _are_ a moron.” Ed rolled his eyes, “I know from experience that things just don't work out that way.”

“You broke the law, Nygma. You killed your girlfriend _and_ two cops. Then you framed Jim-”

“-Why does Jim get a free pass? He's the one who killed Galavan, not Penguin!” Ed yelled, “And you _know_ that.”

“The courts ruled that Detective Gordon was innocent.”

“What a _joke!_ The lot of you!” Ed spat. They failed him as a kid and they continued to fail him now.

Captain Barnes grit his teeth, “Where's the body?”

“You'll never find it,” he smirked

“Oh, we will. We always do.” Harvey leaned across the table as he mocked him.

Edward's laughter erupted from his core, uncontrolled and feral, “No you won't you sorry excuse for a higher primate. I work in forensics! There _is_ no body!”

“You disgust me.” Barnes snarled and paced around the poorly lit room, “Tell us why you framed Detective Gordon for the murder of Officer Pinkney.”

“Simple. He was suspicious about Miss Kringle's disappearance.”

“So you framed Jim because you were hiding your trail?”

“Wow, you really _are_ stupid, Ed.” Harvey scoffed, “Jim never suspected you of doing something like that. He was trying to protect you! He was trying to give you answers! He was your friend-”

“Jim Gordon was _never_ my friend.” Edward glared

“No. But the Penguin sure as hell is.”

Edward seethed, “Jim is a coward! He murdered Theo Galavan and let the Penguin take the fall for it!”

“That's why you framed him? You wanted justice for Theo Galavan and Penguin?” Captain Barnes scrunched his nose in disgust and disbelief.

“THEY _BROKE_ HIM!” Edward screamed, “He came to my apartment after he was released and he was a completely different person.”

“Yeah. I hear he's sane now. Really mellowed out.” Harvey spoke, unconvinced and irritated

“The Penguin is _dead._ Or may as well be... the person that he was is gone now.” Ed's chest ached. That red string had been cut. The man that walked into his apartment and begged repentance no longer atomized his spirit. It left him hollow and weak. Starved. Ed craved something he couldn't even name and it drove him to his breaking point.

“So you wanted revenge for your boyfriend getting sent to Arkham?” Harvey asked.

Wide-eyed, Edward stammered, “What?! N-no... The Penguin... he's not... _we're_ not!”

“Wow, Ed.” Harvey shook his head, “I mean, I had a hunch that the two of you were a little too close for comfort. I thought you were crazy before, but this is something else.”

Edward bristled, “Why am I not surprised that the concept of me possibly being in a homosexual relationship is what draws the line for you?” he scoffed, “You always _did_ seem the bigoted type.”

“Now you wait just one goddamn minute!” Harvey loomed over him.

He cackled like a mad man. The crack of his forehead against Harvey's jaw was well worth the pain.

* * *

Arkham Asylum was his most challenging puzzle to date.

The inhabitants of the two-hundred-year-old relic were never a constant. Their personalities varied wildly day-to-day. Most died in their cells from neglect or from complications from their medication. Others simply vanished. Hugo Strange- the man deemed fit to be Warden of the hospital- treated them more like lab rats than he did patients.

The controversy surrounding the refurbishment of the old asylum had never interested him before. But now, being here, he was beginning to understand the rumors. Arkham was a blight on Gotham. The northernmost island was like a cancer that infected the soil and poisoned the water. Or, perhaps, it was the soil that poisoned the building and filled it with monsters. Ed wasn't certain if tearing it down brick by brick would actually accomplish anything.

Edward was two weeks into his incarceration and he still hadn't received anything resembling treatment. He was required to take whatever medications the nurses handed him and he had to maintain a stable routine throughout the day. He'd be scolded if he missed a meal or any of the activities in the common area.

The first several days had been the hardest. He was used to the typical sounds of Gotham's rambunctious nightlife when he tried to sleep, but here he was treated to an onslaught of banshee shrieks and incoherent babbling. Sleep was impossible. After three days of hiding in his cell, one of the orderlies dragged him out and forced him to sit and play board games with the other patients. The irony of having to play the _Game of Life_ when the other players had chewed up all of the pieces was not lost on him.

This was Hell.

For days, Ed attempted to get the attention of Hugo Strange. He wanted to prove that he was too smart and too valuable an asset to be locked away there. He was useful. He'd do anything. He'd be good so long as he didn't have to endure treatment.

...So long as he didn't become like Oswald.

The day finally came when he was called to his office. The orderlies dragged him down the narrow corridor and shoved him into the chair opposite the Warden's desk. The man slowly spun around and flashed him a wicked smile.

“Mister Nygma, my name is Professor Strange. I am the Chief of Psychiatry here at Arkham Asylum.”

“I know who you are.”

“Yes, but we have not formally met. Have we?” he continued to smile, “I apologize for not meeting with you sooner. I wanted to observe you and see how you acclimated to your stay here. How has your adjustment been so far?”

“Lousy.”

“You have seemed to favor isolation. Perhaps you would feel more at home if you participated in activities?”

“At home?” Edward scoffed, “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

The Professor laughed aloud, “Yes. Well, I apologize that the accommodations are not to your standards of comfort. The environment is meant to be therapeutic.”

“How is listening to the screams of the insane all night supposed to be therapeutic?”

“Are you having trouble sleeping?” he asked, jotting down a note.

“I don't need any more medication if that's what you're asking.” Edward scratched at a patch of dry skin. His chest and throat already burned from the cocktail of sedatives and anti-psychotics he was on. He could endure a little insomnia if that meant fewer pills to have to take.

“I assure you, everything that you are given while in my care is for your benefit.” he spoke in a condescending tone, “That being said, I do have something I would like to give you to help you relax. May I?”

“If I say _'No'_ are you just going to bring in one of your thugs to hold me down?”

“Now, now...” he clicked his tongue, “Let's not resort to that. I thought you wanted treatment. Isn't that why you have been trying to gain my attention?”

Edward swallowed a dry lump in his throat as he watched the Professor pull out a syringe. He heard the door open behind him but he was too scared to move.

“I have found great success with this treatment. You are a smart man, Mister Nygma. No doubt you will understand its uses once you've experienced it first hand.”

The larger of the two orderlies stepped into the office and strapped Edward to the chair as the medication was administered. Ed thrashed around for several minutes before the medicine took hold of him. Light pooled at the edges of his vision. Everything seemed over-saturated and golden.

“Let's start things simple.” the Professor opened a fresh notebook and held the tip of his pen to the paper, “What is your name?”

“Edward Nashton.”

Ed gasped when he heard it. He'd never slipped up like that before. He tried to verbalize a correction but it was as if his tongue were clamped in a vice.

“...Interesting.” the Professor raised an eyebrow, “Did you have your name changed?”

“Yes.” Edward cried. He felt vulnerable. He'd only ever allowed himself to be candid around Oswald. He _trusted_ Oswald. Whatever medication Hugo Strange had forced upon him perverted all sense of trust.

“Why?”

“I hated my father.” he bit his tongue. It was like he was being carved open- no different than Leonard.

“I see...” Hugo Strange wrote in his notes for a considerably long time, “Let's pretend for a moment that _I_ am your father. What would you say to me?”

“Fuck you.” the Other spoke out of turn. The vulgarity made him writhe but it felt appropriate.

“I'm not speaking to _you._ ” he glared, “Right now, I am speaking to Edward Nashton. You'll get your turn.”

The Other slid away to the corner of his mind.

“I will ask again,” he stared at Edward, “If I was your father, what would you say to me?”

“I... I'm sorry... I wasn't good enough,” he wept, “I'm sorry I wasn't strong or smart and I'm sorry I couldn't make you love me... I'm sorry mom got pregnant. I'm sorry I ruined your lives...”

“You harbor a lot of guilt.” he said, “Did it ever occur to you that you were not the one to blame?”

“No...”

“Do _you_ think you're smart?”

“No.” The answer alarmed him.

“I see.” he smirked like he knew more than he should, “And who do you hate more: Yourself or your father?”

“M-myself.”

“Well, I can assure you that is a perfectly normal response.” he smiled, all teeth and falsehood, “Forming relationship with our parents can be difficult. No parent is perfect and their children, when faced with trauma, are unable to cope with that lack of connection. Why do you hate your father?”

“He killed my m-mom.” tears poured down his face. His stutter had returned, “He beat us... k-kept us l-locked in the house.”

“Do you not like being locked up?”

“I hate it.” Edward shivered, wishing he could at least hold himself as he rocked back and forth but the restraints are too tight.

“Do you regret what you did to end up here?”

“No.” he snarled, his eyes darkened. Jim Gordon deserved everything he got. Same with that bully Dougherty.

“And who am I speaking to now?” he observed him over the rim of his circular glasses, “You are another personality, am I correct?”

“I'm still me,” the Other laughed, “More or less.”

“Do you have a name?” the Professor asked

“I was told I didn't need one.” the Other scoffed. Ed had always been stubborn.

“Good.” he smirked, “Not having a name or a real identity will keep you from feeding into the delusion that you exist in the first place.”

“I _do_ exist.” he bellowed

“Do you?”

“I...” the Other started to panic. He swallowed bile and started thrashing in the chair. The restraints dug into his skin, but at least he could feel _something._ It was proof enough that he was real. At least in his panic-stricken mind.

Their sessions continued on like that for months. The Professor didn't always use the truth serum but, when he did, he insisted on the most invasive line of questioning Edward could imagine. Everything from his earliest memories he had long since run from to the bitter resentment and loneliness he felt each and every day.

This was most assuredly Hell. His punishment was to constantly being reminded of what was taken from him. His own freedom, his identity... and Oswald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elijah totes taught Gertrud how to play _Heart and Soul._ I also wanted the scene with them playing the piano together to mirror the scene I wrote from [Devil.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19244317)
> 
> For those that are unfamiliar, Ed was playing [Chopin's Wrong Note.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7C2it9cCsY)
> 
> He also plays a portion of the _Dies iræ_ which is a song typically used to represent death or warn of incoming death. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I felt like utilizing my nerdy music knowledge in this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this out! I hope you all enjoy. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*✲ﾟ*｡⋆
> 
> A few things, however: A lot of you have told me that you're really interested in seeing Ed's POV for all of these small, intimate moments throughout their story. I was originally going to have a time skip, but I'm instead going to write it all out in sequence. Which, of course, means that this is going to be way longer than I meant it to be. So we've bumped up to 10 chapters. (Sorry not sorry?)
> 
> I also have a [Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/MissVileWrites) dedicated to my writing and podfics! This chapter was posted yesterday as early access and I am going to be publishing the finale for the [Building Steam With a Grain of Salt](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661929) finale either tonight or tomorrow over on Patreon.

Humming along to the music in his head was the only thing that kept him sane most nights. In particular, he found that Oswald's lullaby calmed him the most. However, Edward could still feel his sanity slowly chip away like flecks of lead paint on the walls of his mind— peeling like scales and crumbling to dust on the rotted floors beneath his feet.

Hugo Strange had been an absolute madman but at least his schemes kept Edward's brain busy. When he first arrived at Arkham, he had boundless enthusiasm and aspirations of escape. Hugo Strange practically encouraged it but, now that Hugo's plans had been foiled and there was a new warden, he struggled to get out of bed most mornings. His days consisted of pointless group therapy and a cereal bowl of sedatives.

He was losing time. Not in the same way he had before when that nagging voice in his head would pull the wool over his eyes. No... he was missing entire days and sessions for seemingly no reason at all. He would be sitting in the common room staring at a jigsaw puzzle only to blink, find his project gone, and one of the orderlies would jerk him to his feet toward his room.

He listened to the buzzing of the incandescent bulbs from the hall. Something scratched behind his eyes— clawing its way to the forefront of his mind. His Other seemed to be trapped. Hugo Strange sought to that with his incessant poking and prodding and unnecessary shock therapy, but Ed knew he was still there. Ed knew he was real. At least, as real as a projection of impulse that occasionally took over his body could be.

The walls of Arkham were consuming him. On a good day, he felt like he was wading through murky water as he made his rounds in the common area— treading mud and god knows what else that left him tired and sore. The worst of them left him feeling like he was dissolving into ash and bleeding through the floor and into the nothing below.

He was allowed to send letters and had considered reaching out to the Penguin. He even made it so far as to have placed the green crayon to the yellow paper before he changed his mind. Oswald had warned him— both before killing Galavan and after he'd had his brains scrambled— and Edward had failed to listen on both occasions. Oswald, no matter which version he was, would greet his letter with nothing more than benign disappointment.

What would he even say to him? If he was still the naive lamb he was the last time they spoke, then they had nothing in common. Ed certainly had no idea how to save him or even if there was any shred of Oswald left that _could_ be saved. If he had returned to his old self, Ed had already proven that he was unable to meet the kingpin's expectations. He wasn't even capable of joining the firefight against Galavan. Oswald had lied in order to spare him the embarrassment, but the sting was there all the same.

His vow to one day destroy Jim Gordon and all he held dear was just as strong, if not stronger, than it had been. Jim was the reason Oswald was taken from him. _Jim_ was the reason he was locked away to rot in this madhouse. Jim was the reason Ed tossed and turned at night and wondered if his father had been right about him all along.

“Nygma, you have a visitor,” one of the orderlies grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hoisted him to his feet.

For a moment, Ed wondered if the narrow corridor led to some sort of torture chamber instead of the visiting room. The lights above him flickered and he could feel his limbs grow numb. The uncertainty of it all made him want to scream and run in the opposite direction.

They turned the corner down a different hallway and Ed could tell this was the section of the hospital where people on the outside were permitted to go simply based on the wallpaper. It was designed to be more homey and appealing in order to maintain the charade.

“Good afternoon, Nygma,” Lucius Fox gave him a friendly nod from across a small table.

Tentatively, Edward sat down in the chair across from the man— his body turned slightly so he didn't have to face him directly. He hadn't received any visitors before. Admittedly, he was desperate to see a familiar face. Even if that person was practically a stranger to him.

“I take it you're here to gloat about taking over my job?” Ed grimaced.

“Nope.”

“Then... why come here?”

“I assumed you don't get very many friendly visitors. Thought I would be the exception,” he placed his hand onto the table as if to show Ed that he had nothing to hide.

“That's very generous of you,” Ed maintained a cold facade.

“Or very stupid of me,” he raised an eyebrow.

“That too,” Ed chuckled, “I did lock you in a room and threatened to kill you.”

“Yeah, I did not appreciate that,” Lucius remained stoic but the slight twinge at the corner of his mouth suggested a hint of amusement, “I'm just glad you didn't go through with it.”

“Oh, but I would have. In a heartbeat. But Hugo Strange gave me very specific instructions,” he admitted.

“I'm sure he did,” Lucius rolled his eyes, “How is Arkham without that madman around?”

“Dull. Boring. I would much rather bash my brains in on my cell wall but they keep stopping me.”

“Have you told your doctor that?” Lucius looked concerned. Ed questioned how genuine it was.

“You think I have a doctor?” Ed laughed, “No, they don't actually treat people here. They just throw you in restraints and pump you full of medicine in the hopes you die in your sleep and they can toss you into the furnace downstairs.”

“How are you expected to get better if they don't offer you treatment?”

“Aw, poor Foxy,” Ed placed a hand over his chest, “It almost sounds like you care.”

“I do care. You're a brilliant man and you deserve proper treatment.”

“Well, you're not going to find it in Arkham. Or Gotham, for that matter.”

“I could talk things over with the proper channels. Maybe get you a transfer?”

“You would do that?” Ed leaned forward, “And what would you want in return?”

“Nothing.”

“LIAR!” Ed slammed his hands on the table, “No one in this city does favors for someone without expecting something in return.”

“You really think that?”

“I _know_ that. And the sooner you realize that the more likely you are to survive.”

“That is a very grim way of looking at the world.”

“And you're naive,” Ed snarled.

“There's no need to be hostile, Nygma. I'm just trying to—”

Ed startled himself with how swiftly he grabbed the other man by the collar. Lucius gripped him by his wrists and yelped.

“If you come here to mock me again, I will find a way out of here and I will skin you alive,” he laughed, “Or maybe I'll start with that billionaire kid. You seem oddly attached.”

“You're insane!”

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” Ed smiled before getting cracked over the head by an orderly.

Stars filled his vision as he was dragged down the hall to his room. They locked the door behind them and he let out a sigh of relief. Forced isolation at least meant he was under no obligation to go out and mingle among the other inmates during their common hours. He could sit in his room and be alone with his thoughts in peace. In hindsight, being rewarded with isolation just made him consider being more violent _all the time._ Food for thought...

They didn't unlock his cell until the next morning. He rolled himself out of bed and to the small sink in his room. The acrylic mirror warped his reflection. He splashed cold water on his face and tried to ignore the stabbing pain he felt at being denied even a sliver of his true self— whatever that even was. He brushed his teeth with the small disposable toothbrush he was given. They didn't allow mouthwash, so he made do with the packets of lemon juice they offered at mealtimes.

He made his way down the boring stretch of hallway that led to the common area and winced at the sounds of the insane so early in the morning. How they hadn't permanently bruised their vocal folds was beyond him. Maybe if he force-fed them jello and jabbed it down their throats with a spork, he wouldn't have to listen to them anymore—

“You're a popular man, Nygma. You have another visitor,” an orderly placed a hand on Ed's shoulder as he shuffled through the line at breakfast.

Ed stared down at the questionable slop on his plate and sighed. It was probably Detective Gordon or some other officer here to scold him for how he treated Mr. Fox the day before. Or perhaps even a lawyer sent to read off a list of charges being added to his already existing ones, no doubt prolonging his stay.

His heart leapt into his throat when he saw who his visitor actually was.

“Mister Penguin?”

“Oh, please,” he shook his head, “I am not that man anymore. Oswald is fine.”

Edward felt like there was a knife twisting in his insides. This wasn't the Penguin. This was an empty, acquiescent shell of the man he used to be.

“Please, sit,” he smiled much too brightly, “I have many things I wish to tell you.”

Hesitantly, he sat down. There was a pregnant silence between them that made Edward want to scream in the other man's face.

“How have you been?” he asked, “I trust Arkham is treating you well.”

“You know they're not,” he felt himself growl.

Something flashed in Oswald's eyes but it vanished just as quickly as it came, “I am sorry to hear that.”

“Are you?” Ed ground his teeth, “Isn't this what I deserve?”

“Is it what _you_ think you deserve?” Oswald's tone had an edge of pity to it. If Edward had a knife in his hand, he might have done something he would regret.

“Why are you here, Mister Penguin?”

“ _Oswald,”_ he corrected, “Am I not allowed to visit my friend?”

“You still consider me a friend?”

“Why not?” Oswald asked. His face fell suddenly, “Oh... do you no longer consider _me_ a friend after...?”

Ed wasn't sure how to respond. He watched as Oswald's eyes danced around his face and an embarrassed blush filled his cheeks. He was smiling in a way that didn't fit his features.

“I see...” he looked like he might cry. It made Ed's chest clench, “I won't bother you any further then.”

“Wait,” Ed reached out, “Don't go.”

“A-Are you sure? If I'm being a nuisance, I understand.”

“It's... fine,” Ed assured him, desperate to keep something even remotely familiar in his life, “I just didn't expect you to want to visit me.”

“Of course I would want to visit you, silly,” he smiled, “You're my friend and I know how dreadfully lonely it can be here.”

The guilt seeped under Ed's skin and into his marrow. He hadn't visited Oswald once after leaving him here. The man had been tortured, abused, and torn inside out. Ed was no better than Jim.

“I am happy to know that you are safe. Or, at least, safer than you would be if you were at my side.”

“I don't know,” Ed smirked, “I still think we make a pretty good team.”

“Everyone I care about dies when they're around me... I'm beginning to think that there's just something wrong with me,” Oswald looked sad, “I hope you don't still hold a grudge against me for not letting you come with us to stop Galavan.”

Edward's shoulders tensed, “I never held a grudge.”

“Good... That's good,” he sniffled, “I just couldn't stand the thought of you getting hurt.”

Visitations were tragically short at Arkham. Fifteen minutes was all he was permitted to have and that was not nearly enough time to dissect the man in front of him, figuratively or otherwise. Oswald filled him in on the details of his life that Ed had missed— how he had come to know his father and live with him in a mansion on the outskirts of town— but he was sent away before he could really divulge any of the details.

Oswald promised to visit often and even offered to mail him care packages to make his stay that much more bearable. The idea of having to maintain a friendship with this watered-down caricature made Ed's blood boil. It even made the voice buried deep down angry for reasons he couldn't fathom.

Some time passed before he heard from his friend again. Several weeks, in fact. Ed was starting to doubt whether or not Oswald was truly planning on remaining his friend when he received the first package. Inside was a box of expensive-looking biscuits. The packaging was intact which made him question whether or not it was real. Inmates like him normally had their packages and letters ransacked by security, but these were still delicately wrapped in their paper.

Cautiously, he took a bite. He nearly cried. The cardamom and orange made his mouth tingle. He hadn't had food with any real flavor in so long that he almost forgot what it was like. He tucked the rest of the tin under his mattress and only took them out to nibble on late at night when his nightmares got the better of him.

The next package was perfectly timed. There was a draft in his room and the single, thin blanket he was given was not enough to stave off the unforgiving cold. He held the brown paper package to his chest before opening it. He could tell by the softness that it was likely something meant to offer him comfort during Gotham's bitter cold. He hitched a breath when he opened it and saw the plush emerald fabric. He wasn't sure what made his heart fuller, the fact that Oswald had gifted him a sweater in the first place or the fact that he bothered remembering what his favorite color was.

The day finally came for Oswald to visit him once again. But this time was much different. Edward entered the visitation room and had to blink away the fog in front of his eyes.

Oswald Cobblepot sat across from him. No longer the kindhearted, brainwashed lamb but not the one from before either. His clothes were nicer. His hair looked softer. He was even wearing makeup and looked healthy.

Ed swallowed, unsure if an unprompted compliment would earn him the Penguin's ire.

“Why are you being so kind?” Ed asked, groggy but trying to maintain a strong face.

“Talking to you these past months, I don't know how I would've gotten by otherwise,” Mister Penguin explained.

Edward watched his friend talk and bit the inside of his cheek. The man pulled himself from that abyss Edward had left him in months prior. Mister Penguin had no reason to thank him. Edward didn't deserve the praise. He'd done everything wrong.

“With Fish out there planning who knows what...” Oswald's eyes danced around. Even now he was calculating. It was always one of his more attractive qualities, “Me being surrounded by morons and lunatics.”

“I know the feeling.”

Ed hated that he couldn't be there to assist Oswald. The man was clearly suffering not having someone to match his intelligence at his side. Ed could at least offer him that. He wasn't sure how well he could actually do that from inside Arkham. Or even if Mister Penguin _wanted_ his help.

“Why didn't she kill me when she had the chance?”

_He does need us,_ the voice whispered from below.

“I was powerless. She must have a larger goal,” he ambled, “I-I need to know what she is doing.”

“Do you?” Ed interrupted.

Oswald stopped mid-word and looked up at him. Waiting. An edge of eagerness and even slight vulnerability. Edward leaned over and tore at the wrapping paper on the table in front of him.

“When Alexander encountered the Gordian Knot, a knot so complex no one had ever been able to untangle it...”

Oswald watched him as he hid his hands and the torn paper under the table— curious. His eyes darted back up towards his friend.

“...He just removed his sword and cut it in two,” Ed chuckled, “Details can be distracting. Sometimes... a simple solution is best. See, no matter _what_ she is planning, just remember...” he revealed the tiny origami penguin he folded, “...Penguins _eat_ fish.”

* * *

He hadn't slept soundly since he'd been incarcerated. Strange was gone, along with his monsters, but Ed was still surrounded by screams. Most nights he was unsure if they were coming from him or somewhere else.

Since arriving at Arkham Asylum, Ed was plagued with nightmares. They were more vivid and gruesome than any he'd ever experienced before. He'd dare call them prophetic at times. Some dreams he could pull apart and analyze while others were far more perplexing. One such dream left him so confused upon awakening that he wasn't even certain he'd been asleep. Figures, a boy and a girl with dark hair and old-fashioned clothes, ran through the halls outside his room and screamed as if being chased. If he believed in ghosts, he might have just assumed that was what he'd witnessed.

After his visit with the Penguin, he dreamed for the first time in a long time. He watched himself as he opened the body bag at the morgue. He didn't bother hiding his smirk as he laid eyes on the desecrated corpse of Theo Galavan with an umbrella lodged down his throat. Oswald clearly wanted to send a message. He also wanted to sign his name in the boldest way that he could and divert all suspicion away from Jim.

Ed replaced the bullet that was pulled out of Galavan's chest with one fired out of a Colt M1911 he had on hand. He knew it was a type of pistol used by some of Falcone's assassins and wanted to make Mister Penguin's story that much more believable when the lie inevitably had to be told.

Blood ran thick down the drain. It honestly resembled cherry colored paint more than it did blood. The more he scrubbed at his hands, the more raw they felt.

“Ed?”

He turned and felt the room spin. Oswald choked and blood pooled in his mouth where he lay on the cold slab— a gunshot wound leaking from his chest. Ed tripped over his own feet as he frantically made his way towards his friend and desperately tried to cover the hole that exposed his heart.

Oswald's eyes glazed over and he started showing signs of rapid decay as Ed was forced to stand there and watch. The only thing not dissolved into bone and dust was Oswald's intact heart that looked as though someone had taken a bite out of it.

“ _Wake up, dummy!”_

Edward's eyes shot open. It took him several seconds to realize he hadn't yet breathed. His eyes darted around the room as he gulped down a breath. Edward could have sworn that the Other's voice had been what woke him from his nightmare, but that didn't seem likely. He was still buried deep in the cavernous recesses of his drug-addled mind.

He was startled yet again by the door to his cell being flung open. Ed, on instinct alone, leapt from his bed and pressed his back against the wall farthest from the door. A flashlight shined in his face. He shielded himself from the offending light with his hand and silently prayed that this wasn't one of the orderlies deciding he was finally sick and tired of Ed's riddles.

“Good news, Mister Nygma,” Warden Quimbly stepped through the doorway, “You're being released.”

“I'm... what?”

“Released,” he spoke in a nervous tone, “Right now.”

An orderly threw a small paper sack into the room that landed at Edward's feet. He looked down to see that it was the outfit he'd been wearing at intake.

“Is this a test?” Ed asked, uncertain.

“You have your freedom, Mister Nygma. Take it.”

With that, the warden walked away and said something to one of the other doctors in the hallway. There was an orderly standing guard at his door but it was left wide open. Hesitantly, Ed reached out and clutched at his things. It had been laundered at the Asylum and smelled heavily of lye and limonene.

After getting dressed and packing the last of his things into the paper sack, he followed Warden Quimbly and the others toward the front door. He'd never seen someone get released late at night and was curious as to what sort of joke the Asylum was playing on him.

Ed stared at the certificate gifted to him and frowned.

“I'm sane?” his voice sounded haggard to his own ears.

“Absolutely,” the Warden gave him a fake smile, “One hundred percent. I examined you myself.”

Did he? He rarely spoke with Warden Quimbly and certainly had never had a therapy session with the man. When would he have ever had the opportunity to examine him? And wasn't there supposed to be an appeal filed? And probational hearings? This was all highly unorthodox given the crimes Ed had been locked away for.

“And the murder of Miss Kringle?”

“Committed while you were insane.”

“Officer Dougherty?”

“Insane.”

“Officer Pinkney?”  
  


“Insane,” his voice was steadily getting higher pitched.

“And now I'm...”

“Sane!” he quivered like a leaf as he recited his words like they were from a script, “And _not_ responsible for any of the acts perpetrated during your _sickness._ You're a free man, Edward.”

The wrought-iron gate of the asylum squeaked as the warden attempted to close it in Edward's face. Ed reached out and stopped it from closing all the way. Quimbly looked like he was about to crawl out of his skin and hide in the nearest alleyway.

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but how did you—”

He stopped when he spotted headlights in his peripheral. The sight of the limo made him feel like his heart had stopped. Just as Edward felt he had lost himself to the gaping maw of Arkham, Oswald had come to his rescue.

“Nevermind,” Edward smirked devilishly at the warden and pondered what sorts of things the meek little man had been threatened with.

“Hello, old friend,” Oswald looked positively tickled as he poked his head out the window.

Edward trotted over to the limousine, delighted to finally be rid of the nightmare that was Arkham. No more persistent white noise, gurgling, and incoherent screams all hours of the day and night. No more bland food and questionable mystery meat.

The mansion was even more beautiful than Oswald had described. Filled to the brim with lavish antiques collected by his father's side of the family over the years— and possibly a few too many secrets sequestered in its walls.

“Welcome home,” Oswald gestured to the chair across from him, “I have asked Olga to prepare a room for you.”

“Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude.”

“Where else would you go, Ed?” Oswald spoke briskly, “I remember what it was like when I was released. Please, allow me to offer you a place to stay. It is the least I could offer you for tolerating me when I was not... entirely myself.”

Ed looked around the room and questioned whether or not it was more polite to accept Oswald's offer of the chair or if he should remain standing so he didn't accidentally breathe on anything too heavily. He decided it was probably best to just sit down with his paper sack of belongings in his lap and pray he didn't embarrass himself in the Penguin's opulent home.

“ _No man has ever been entirely and completely himself,”_ Oswald quoted, sipping his wine fondly.

“Hermann Hesse,” Ed chuckled, “Demian. How many of my books did you read while you were at my apartment?”

“Only the ones on your nightstand,” he confessed.

“Why only those?”

He shrugged, “They seemed the most important. I figured they would help me understand you a little more thoroughly.”

He swallowed. Curious to know what Oswald thought of him based on those books alone- _Demian, The Metamorphosis,_ and _The Three Faces of Eve_ being the three most frequently read novels in his collection.

“I'll have to buy a new copy. I'm sure that all of my stuff got auctioned off or thrown in a dumpster somewhere.”

“I'm afraid most of it was auctioned off, yes. However...” Oswald led him to the library and gestured toward a tower of boxes stacked in the corner, “I did manage to acquire some of it!”

Ed gasped, “You saved my stuff!”

“I wasn't able to get your piano, unfortunately,” he said with a frown, “I'll just have to buy you a new one.”

Edward opened all of the boxes and was hit with a waft of nostalgia as the smell of mint, eucalyptus, and orange filled his nostrils. It still smelled like his apartment.

“Ed... I have a favor to ask of you,” Oswald asked, leaning heavily on his cane.

“I am here to serve,” Ed smiled, “I assume you need help with your mayoral campaign?”

“No. Well, _yes._ Later. This is more personal than that.”

“Oh,” Ed nodded, “What do you need?”

“I would like to visit my mother this afternoon. I haven't since the day I met my father. Would you join me?”

* * *

It was raining when they arrived. Ed followed closely beside him with an umbrella but the smaller man didn't seem all that concerned about the cold rain as Ed was. Still, Edward tended to his needs without question and without regret.

“Hello, Mother,” Oswald spoke to the stone, “It's been a while.”

Oswald placed the bouquet onto the ground and sniffled. The display was a bit foreign to Ed. He hadn't ever thought about visiting the unmarked plot of land where his mother was scattered and saw no point in mourning over her in that way. He certainly didn't see the point in trying to _speak_ with her when there was no way of her ever hearing him.

“I brought a friend this time,” he smiled, “You've met Edward, I assume. He brought you flowers when I couldn't.”

“He-Hello...” Ed cleared his throat, “Yes. I did.”

Ed wondered if Oswald ever followed the paper trail to see who paid for his mother's funeral. Or even if he suspected that Ed had covered the additional costs himself.

Gertrud's body had been brought into the morgue shortly after she'd been found. All of the immediate evidence that would have incriminated the Galavan's was wiped clean at the scene. Ed could tell the resemblance to the Penguin right away and had that suspicion confirmed by Detective Gordon and the others who made their way into the morgue that day. The utter lack of respect for the recently deceased Miss Kapulput was upsetting, to say the least. Especially because there was an order from the higher-ups to put her body on ice in case they needed her for further evidence.

It meant that the Penguin wouldn't even have the opportunity to mourn her or see her placed into the ground before Mayor Galavan had firmly secured his foothold on Gotham. By the time the Penguin had recovered at his apartment and had disposed of the Mayor, his assets were frozen and he was thrown into Arkham, leaving Poor Gertrud Kapelput in a freezer. And Ed, after being asked to place flowers at her grave, didn't feel right sitting around and waiting for her to get thrown into some unmarked hole. The mother of the Penguin deserved better.

“I really do appreciate this, Ed,” Oswald looked up at his friend, “My heart was breaking at the prospect of visiting her alone. I'm glad I have you here.”

“Anytime,” Ed smiled.

Oswald cried for a few minutes before speaking again, “I was too ashamed to visit her after my father died.”

Ed breathed, trying not to dwell too much on the similarities to his own complicated relationship with his mother's grave.

“After he took me in, I vowed to do my best to protect him and keep him company. To offer him a life with the son he never knew he had. I wanted to be the thing that kept him connected to my mother,” his expression went from melancholic to malicious in an instant, “And then Grace took him from me. She took advantage of my kind heart and grief and had me scrub floors.”

“Oswald,” Ed placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, turning him around so they were facing each other, “You have been given the opportunity to build the Gotham you always wanted for her. She would be proud of that.”

“You really think so?” Oswald furrowed his brow.

“Come on,” he smirked, “We have work to get to.”

* * *

The Mayoral campaign was more complicated than Ed had originally signed up for. Not that he was _really_ complaining. He would do anything asked of him by his friend. He only wished that he knew the specifics of what his job entailed and what was expected of him aside from offering the Mayoral candidate advice. Oswald had freed him from bondage but failed to offer him any real security. Any time Ed tried taking on a task, he was immediately shot down for overstepping or getting in the way.

It was the morning before the election. Oswald had requested that some books be delivered to the manor for research purposes. Ed wasn't entirely sure what sort of research was needed until he opened one of them to a page Oswald had marked.

“Theodore Van Dahl,” Ed read the name aloud, “He was a relative.”

“Yes. He was Mayor of Gotham City back in the 1800s,” Oswald explained, “From what I have read, he ran a tight ship at City Hall alongside his best friend and Chief of Staff.”

“Robert Dent. I wonder if he has any relation to Harvey Dent,” Ed pondered.

“Possibly. The Dent's come from a long line of lawyers and politicians.”

“I thought the Van Dahl's were tailors,” Ed said, perusing the bound articles.

“They were, among other things. I am still piecing together my family's history. My father left out a lot of the more unsavory details about our past,” he explained, “Hopefully my reign as Mayor will not end as tragically as Theodore's.”

“Oh?”

“His Mayorship was filled with scandal. He was eventually forced to resigned and Mr. Dent died in a fire shortly after. Theodore drank himself to death within the year.”

“Ah,” Ed flipped through old newspaper articles until he came across one that mentioned the old mayor and his chief of staff, “They were having an affair.”

“Oh? Where did you read that?”

“There were rumors,” Ed pointed to the article, “And just reading over how Robert Dent spoke about him, it's obvious they were more than just friends.”

“That's purely speculation,” Oswald rolled his eyes.

“True,” Ed grinned, “We would have to conduct a séance to know for sure.”

The two of them shared a laugh at that. Ed turned the page and stared at a rather intimate illustration of the former mayor and chief of staff hugging shortly after the resignation.

“ _We could have that, you know.”_

Ed stared at the empty space just passed Oswald's head.

“What are you staring at?” Oswald turned, “You aren't actually seeing ghosts, are you?” he gave a nervous chuckle.

“ _Well, I could. I'm more useful to him. You would just be in the way.”_

“Ed, seriously, what _are_ you looking at?”

“ _You should let me in the driver's seat,”_ the Other finally took shape and stood next to Oswald who looked altogether quite confused.

“No...” Ed shook his head. The medication must finally be out of his system if he's seeing his hallucinations again.

“ _Don't be selfish. It'll be temporary.”_

“You're not real.”

“ _STOP **SAYING** THAT!”_

Ed covered his ears and stumbled backwards. He felt the hard press of the table against his back and cried out from the sudden jolt of pain. His hallucination's voice continued to scream at him— a flurry of damning phrases and insults that made him feel small.

“Ed!”

The room rang with Oswald's voice. He looked up to see Oswald holding him firmly by the shoulders.

“Ed... you aren't in Arkham anymore,” he spoke firmly, soothing the tension from his friend's unsteady frame, “You're with me now.”

Ed couldn't speak, but he managed to nod. He couldn't meet Oswald's eyes. Being this vulnerable and useless around his friend who needed him during such a tumultuous time made Ed's skin crawl.

“How about you get some rest? Butch and I will handle—”

“No!” Ed clenched his eyes shut and waited for the ringing in his ears to subside, “Please, let me be... useful.”

Oswald stared at him for a moment. Confused and anxious. His expression softened as he spoke, “Of course. I need you if I am going to win this.”

“Then _utilize_ me,” Ed growled, “I need a purpose, Oswald. Stop treating me like I'm fragile and give me something to do.”

“I wasn't aware that I was... you know what,” he held up his hand, “You are so right. I have a team coming later today that I will put you in charge of.”

“...Thank you,” he rolled his shoulders back, hoping he looked confident.

“Oh! And I would very much like it if you attended my speech tomorrow at City Hall,” he looked down at Edward's attire, “You'll need a new suit.”

Edward thrived giving orders out to campaign employees. Many of whom he vetted the moment they stepped into the mansion. Oswald's campaign deserved the best of the best working for him and Ed would not stand idly by while Butch hired any desperate intern seeking a job. If the buffoon knew what he was doing, he would know that quality over quantity was best.

Butch left much to be desired. Oswald spoke highly of him before but this was also the same man who had betrayed Oswald. A betrayal that spelled the end for Oswald's mother and, if Ed had anything to do with it, he would make sure that he was rightfully punished for such an act.

The following day, Edward continued his work assembling the necessary tools Oswald needed for success, both for the election as well as his inevitable victory. Ed clenched his fists as he stalked the ignorant ape around the mansion and even later when they were at City Hall. On more than one occasion, Edward witnessed him handing a rather hefty envelope to a member Gotham's Election Board.

“I assume you know Butch is paying campaign officials to buy the election?”

“You don't approve?” Oswald smirked, “My dear Ed, this is Gotham. This is how things are done.”

“And in theory, I support that...”

“ _Don't ruin this for him, you sentimental dimwit!”_

“But, Oswald, do you see how these people are cheering for you?”

“Yes. They _do_ seem very excited,” Oswald looked around the room at all of the citizens that congregated to see the not-so-former kingpin give his speech.

“You can win this on your own.”

“Why risk it?” Oswald's expression changed, “There is no upside. I want this, Ed. I want this like I never wanted anything.”

“I know. Which is why you _need_ to call off Butch.”

Before Oswald could say anything to the contrary, Edward's little scheme went into motion.

“Mr. Penguin?” the bright-eyed little girl tugged on his coat.

“Hello, there,” Oswald smiled.

“I wanted to thank you for getting rid of all the monsters.”

Oswald turned to him, eyes wet and sparkling, “Do you see? People look at me differently now.”

“ _I get that you're proving your point... but look at him. He's just so...”_

“For the first time in my life, I feel wanted.”

“Nice doing business with you,” the little girl held out her hand.

Ed, smugly, took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it into the girl's hand.

“And, how do you feel now?” Ed asked.

Oswald swung around, venom in his teeth, “I feel like I've misjudged someone who was supposed to be my friend.”

“I _am_ your friend,” Ed opened his mouth to further explain himself, but a riddle fell out instead, “I cannot be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance. Worthless to one, but priceless to two. What am I?”

“I don't care!” he spat, “I do not need a stupid riddle right now.”

“ _Ouch...”_

“I know what I want,” he stepped into Edward's space once more, “I want to be Mayor. Stay out of it, Ed. I'm warning you.”

“ _Bravo,”_ his Other slow clapped, _“Now he hates us.”_

“That riddle was _your_ doing,” Ed hissed through gritted teeth.

“ _Anything you would have said would've made the situation worse. I bought you some time.”_

“What do you mean?” Ed mumbled under his breath as he made his way through the crowd and toward the campaign van.

“ _He'll be thinking of the answer to that riddle all night, so our feathered little friend will be distracted while you go through with the rest of your plan.”_

And, as expected, there was one behemoth-sized catch...

“YOU!” Butch's voice bellowed, “You, you ruined everything!”

Ed barely had enough time to take a breath before Butch's hand was clamped around his throat and hoisting him into the air.

“Butch! Release him this instant! What is going on?!”

“I'll tell you what's going on, he just cost you the election! He went to every district official and took the money back. Said you wanted to run a clean election.”

“Tell me this is not true,” Oswald's jaw went slack.

“I'm afraid Butch is right. For once,” he croaked as Butch's grip tightened.

“Why?” Oswald cried, “After everything I have done for you. Everything we could've done together. You betrayed me... Butch!”

Butch released him and pointed his gun— point-blank— between his eyes. Either Edward was going to be proven right or he'd be murdered for being wrong. The former was certainly preferable.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn't let Butch kill you where you stand.”

“Well, there are about thirty witnesses...”

“I DON'T CARE!”

Edward smiled, nodding at the television, “And there's that.”

Oswald turned his head toward the source of the cheering and nearly dropped his cane at the announcement.

“I still won?” he turned, tears in his eyes and mouth agape in awe, “They really want me as mayor?”

“Yes,” Ed smiled.

Oswald approached, a question lingering on his brow, “I cannot be bought... but I can be stolen with one glace. Worthless to one, but priceless to two...”

“ _Love,”_ his Other spoke, breathy.

“Love!” Oswald lowered Butch's gun, “They love me!”

“If you would've bought the election, you would've never known. But now you do.”

Ed felt himself lean forward. There was a rope tied around his sternum and Oswald seemed to have the other frayed end in his hand. He found himself wondering if Oswald would tug on it and send him falling. Instead, he adjusted his tie and made his way to the podium.

Mayor Cobblepot looked regal standing in the limelight, addressing his citizens. Oswald was a man routinely branded by those who held power over him and he wore those scars with a prideful perseverance. That fact was never more prominent than it was now. Edward was just grateful that the skills he'd learned manipulating the inmates at Arkham translated to the average Gotham citizen and his plan had actually worked in his favor.

“It is with a humble heart that I accept the trust placed in me by this great city to become your mayor. The people have spoken and I have heard their call,” he paused for applause and then smirked, “And, as my first act as mayor, I would like to introduce you to my Chief of Staff... Mr. Edward Nygma!”

The crowd applauded as Edward took a moment to allow the words to sink in. Surely he'd heard incorrectly? Oswald didn't trust him enough, especially after the risk he'd just taken, to grant him such a position at his side. Confirmation came in the form of Oswald holding out his hand for Edward to meet him at the podium.

* * *

Edward settled into his new position at City Hall and drank in the envious stares as he strode through the lofty rooms like he owned every inch of marble. Oswald handed him meaning— gift wrapped and weighty— and Edward would not squander it like he had so many times before. Like Oswald, he too had emerged from Gotham's crucible a new man. They had decades of power ahead of them and he certainly wouldn't allow Butch Gilzean and the Red Hood Gang to soil all that they had achieved.

“I was hoping we could discuss the matter of your security,” Ed told him.

“I already have security appointed,” Oswald waved his hand dismissively as he centered his focus on the floral arrangements Barbara had brought him.

“While you're at City Hall, yes. And you have a small team here at the mansion. However...” he leaned closer, “I don't trust them with your safety. And I especially don't trust the GCPD.”

“I take it you have suggestions?”

“I do. Starting with you appointing a new Head of Security.”

“Easy. Butch.“

“Butch Gilzean isn't the right fit for that position,” Ed tried to keep his suspicions about the man out of his voice. The party at the Siren's wasn't until later that evening and the various moving parts of his clever little ploy had not yet been put in place.

“Why not? He's loyal and knows how to navigate the underworld,” he said, “He also needs a new title after proving himself unfit to be my Chief of Staff.”

“You could do better than that brainless neanderthal.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“A well-placed dagger wins the war, an offender then makes the best defense, cruel but honorable must I be, what am I?"

“Hmm..” Oswald scratched at his chin, “There's a thought.”

Ed smiled widely, assuming his friend understood his riddle. He opened his mouth to further explain his suggestion, but Oswald interrupted him.

“I hear he's been struggling lately. I'm sure with the right amount deposited into his bank account and the security of a stable job, Jim Gordon could be persuaded. It wouldn't be the first time.”

“You are not seriously suggesting we appoint _Jim Gordon_ as your Head of Security.”

“Was that not the answer to your riddle?”

“...No,” he felt his chest rumble.

“Well, then _who_ exactly were you suggesting? No more riddles!”

“The answer is _an assassin,"_ Ed attempted to remain poised despite his irritation.

“Oh... Victor Zsasz?"

"Obviously."

  
  
"Well, that does make sense,” he nodded, “If you can locate him, you have my blessing. He may resent me for betraying Falcone, but he's been wandering aimlessly through Gotham since the Don moved South.”

“I have his location,” Ed smiled, prideful, “All I need is the right means of... motivation.”

“Top drawer,” he gestured towards his desk.

Edward chuckled when he opened the drawer and found a shining new folding knife and two grand in cash.

* * *

Everything went as it was supposed to. Butch fell for his trap just as Ed had predicted. The man was all crude oil and fractured loyalty, so he was easily manipulated by power and the promise of money. It also helped that Victor Zsasz had been so eager to get back into the business. He dragged the vicious little tabby cat out of her hiding spot and all he had to do was put a knife to her throat and Butch would do anything they asked.

The moment the gun discharged and Oswald was left standing there, unharmed and eyes aflame, Edward couldn't hold back his laughter. Nor did he have to. He gripped his friend tightly and mocked the man beneath them as Victor Zsasz held the gun to his head.

All that needed to be done now was for them to haul Butch away to some secluded alleyway to get fitted for cement shoes. Meanwhile, he and Oswald could enjoy a nice evening alone so they could torture Tabitha Galavan and finally get Oswald the closure he so desperately needed.

“ _You're his guy,”_ Butch had said.

Those words rang true every step of the way and resonated with Ed at his core. Edward felt that he was nothing without Oswald. Having him torn from him so horribly and forced to continue on his journey without him taught him that. And Edward was an invaluable asset to the Penguin. They truly were soulmates, just as Fate had decided for them.

As bad luck would have it, things did _not_ stay on track. And, as a result of poor foresight, Edward was seated by the fire nursing a bruised throat and damaged larynx.

“It's ginger tea with honey,” Oswald sat next to him on the sofa, “It's my mother's recipe for a sore throat.”

Edward took the cup of tea that was so graciously offered. The reversal of their roles was a welcomed change to the course of their evening. He hadn't had someone genuinely take an interest in his well being in so long, he'd forgotten what it was like.

“You sure you don't need a doctor?” Oswald leaned forward and examined the vibrant purple bruising down his neck.

“No, I'm fine,” Ed coughed, sipping the proffered tea.

“I still don't understand why you didn't tell me what you were doing.”

“Your shock when seeing Butch had to be genuine,” Ed explained, “The people had to believe it. And they did. And, once again, you're the City's hero.”

“But you were almost killed,” Oswald frowned.

“And you saved me. Again,” he chuckled, lighthearted in the face of all their trials that evening, “I hope you know, Oswald... I would do anything for you. You can always count on me.”

Edward felt another cough bubble in his throat but, before he could tear himself away from his friend's stare, Oswald pulled him in for a hug.

He still smelled of Patchouli. It's smoother. Darker and more complex. Not as strong as when he used to dab essential oil behind his ears.

Ed wrapped his arm around his friend and rested his chin on his shoulder. This was... nice. Like they were carefully carved pieces that slotted together seamlessly. Ed's eyes stung, but he wasn't entirely sure why. His Other was silent for the first time in days and so Ed was left with nothing but his own trailing thoughts.

Something felt... wrong. Not about the hug, necessarily. But it made Ed shift uncomfortably. Like perhaps he was missing something very, very important. Before he could open his mouth to inquire what that might be, Oswald spoke.

“We've both had a long day,” he patted Ed on the shoulder, “We should get some rest.”

“I anticipated us having an eventful evening, so I've already cleared out schedules for the morning,” Ed smiled, “So you can sleep in as much as you like.”

“I would have regardless," Oswald rolled his eyes playfully, “Please. I need you at a hundred percent before we move forward. Take all of the time you need.”

“Thank you,” he smiled.

“Um... Ed?”

“Yes?”

“I...” Oswald paused, his words choked back suddenly, “Nevermind. It can wait. Goodnight.”

Oswald retreated upstairs and Edward waited for the distinctive click of the lock on his door. Once he knew his friend was sequestered away and safely in his bed, Edward relaxed his shoulders. He listened for the buzzing of inner voices and dared them to lash their tongues at him in his weakened state, but they never came. There was no outpour of inner dialogue. No humming or whispers. There was nothing but crackling embers, silence, and the ticking of the clock.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I told y'all I hadn't abandoned this story. I'm just slooooow.

_“Was he an animal if music could captivate him so? It seemed to him that he was being shown the way to the unknown nourishment he had been yearning for.”_

― Franz Kafka _(The Metamorphosis )_

It was Oswald’s turn to have nightmares. 

There had been a time, back at 805 Grundy, when his friend would call out in the night. He would cry, whimper, tear and tug at whatever he could get his hands on— sometimes it was the sheets and other times it was Ed. The Penguin’s despair could be easily managed by simple gestures. Ed could whisper to him, sing, and even card his fingers through Oswald’s hair. Ed never mentioned it out of fear that it would have been too intimate _— too close—_ for the Penguin’s liking. So, Ed tucked those little moments away. Folded them over and over until they were so small they could be easily ignored.

But Edward knew they were there.

Ed heard something shuffling around outside his bedroom door and called out, assuming it was Oswald sleepwalking again. His friend wasn’t the most stable on his feet even when he was awake so the idea of him being unawares and descending the staircase made Ed nervous. Just as he was about to pull himself from the warmth of his bed, his bedroom door creaked open and in walked Oswald, still asleep and wandering the halls. Before Edward could even turn on the lamp at his bedside, Oswald climbed in with him. The man was already sound asleep and snoring softly beside him. Ed chuckled and gave up any hope of prying the Penguin out of his bed.

Much like those days back at his apartment, Oswald would thrash around and Edward would soothe him back into a restful sleep. Once he was settled, Ed would admire his friend up close. The way he saw it, if he was allowed the privilege, why not collect as much information as he could? He did it often enough that he could probably recreate Oswald perfectly in his mind down to every freckle and scar. He could trace the pattern of his silhouette perfectly and had memorized the lattice pattern of his eyelashes.

There was a certain thrill in knowing this side of the Penguin. These weren't new thoughts, of course. When the Penguin was still recovering all those months ago, Ed savored every fever and every ache and pain. Every desperate gasp for air from the man writhing in his bed. All he would have to do was straddle his hips and wrap his fingers around the man's throat and the infamous Penguin was finished. Ed never really had power over anyone before and then, out of sheer luck, he had one of the most dangerous men in Gotham reliant on him. He wasn't certain what to do with it and so his mind would occasionally run away with him as he pondered all manner of possibilities.

Things mostly settled down in his chest since those days. The dynamic of power had shifted into a more manageable and pleasant state, slightly more familiar and grounded. It eased Ed's concerns to know that if Oswald was going to make himself vulnerable, it was with him and him alone. Oswald was his friend and he only had his best interests at heart. And he knew Oswald would do the same for him. Or, he at least hoped so.

Edward smiled as he entered the hall. Oswald had gone home ahead of him, per Ed's request. It had been a long week and the Mayor deserved some leisure time. It meant more work for Ed but the sacrifice of sore feet and a cramped wrist from signing off on paperwork was well worth it for Oswald's sake. The man always needed to be at his best and Ed could afford the inconveniences.

It also meant he could experience these moments...

Oswald was in the parlor listening to his mother's records. He was singing along to Billie Holiday and Ed couldn't resist hiding around the corner to listen. Watching Oswald sway and sing like no one was watching had swiftly become one of Ed's favorite hobbies. Even the sour notes sounded sweet.

It was odd, to him, at least, that he would be so infatuated with his friend. It wasn’t uncommon for him to develop obsessive habits when it came to people he desired in one way or another. For Kristen, she had reminded him of his mother. She was everything his storybooks and the adults in his life told him to pursue. He assumed that was his Fate— love at first sight— so he ran towards it. Jim Gordon, who possessed the heroic qualities that he was told he should aspire to, had paid him just enough attention that Edward could worm his way into his good graces. He thought that it was Fate that they should be friends and that hopefully some of those qualities would somehow rub off on him. Now, Fate had dealt him a different hand in the form of Oswald Cobblepot. It left him feeling wrongfooted. Oswald was near and dear to him, but he was everything that he was told he should _not_ want. He was a criminal, a scoundrel, and Edward adored everything about him.

He discovered a hidden panel in the hallway his first week at the mansion. The passageway behind the wall conveniently overlooked the parlor and the library. Whenever Oswald would put on a record and pour himself a drink, Ed would hide and watch.

Which... wasn't weird or anything.

Not that it kept the gossip columns at the Gotham Gazette from spewing out ludicrous accusations day in and day out. He knew to anticipate slanderous articles and even the slurry designed to discredit Oswald’s reign as Mayor by airing out all of Ed’s dirty laundry on the front pages. Ed and Oswald had prepared for it. Ed may have _conveniently_ removed any evidence that he had been anyone other than Edward Nygma, a Gotham University graduate who worked in forensics and suffered a psychotic break after he was attacked by a coworker. At least, that was how Oswald spun it.

The Mayor had been cornered during an interview that Edward had been unable to attend. The reporter took advantage of the situation and took it upon himself to ask Oswald all manner of invasive questions about his Chief of Staff. Oswald, with his well-practiced silver tongue, managed to improvise a sob story about how his dear friend had suffered at the hand of one of the GCPD’s own officers. He told them how Ed endured all manner of torment in the corrupt workplace and had been attacked one night and Ed killed him in self-defense. Ed had been surprised to read the article the following day, but they had both been delighted by the number of Gotham’s citizens who took it upon themselves to protest the GCPD and Arkham Asylum’s questionable medical practices. Which, in their defense, _were_ valid critiques.

The consequences of Oswald’s kind words, of course, were that those few impertinent writers who would needlessly misinterpret the twinkle in Oswald’s eye as anything other than a murderous glare.

“Ridiculous,” Edward said, shaking his head and sipping his coffee. 

“What is?” Oswald asked, resting his chin on his hands as he stared at Edward beside him. 

“These journalists really will come up with anything just to publish a story, won’t they?” He turned the page towards his friend with a scoff. It was a photo of them from the attack at the Sirens. It was captured the moment Edward had opened his eyes and saw Oswald hovering over him and shaking him. It was a flattering photo of them smiling, at least. The headline above read _Mayor Cobblepot and Chief of Staff: Associates, criminals, or something more?_

Oswald cleared his throat, “Yes, well. At least they’re wasting their time on pointless speculation, right?” 

“Right,” Ed rolled his eyes and took another sip of his coffee. It was more bitter than he preferred it, but Oswald had insisted on making it for him that morning. Ever since the Sirens, Oswald seemed keen to dote on him at every turn— making his coffee, buying him new suits and having them pressed, and even waking up early to slice fruit for him in the mornings before he went to the office. That last one, in particular, gave him pause but he never complained.

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Oswald asked, his voice uncharacteristically small.

“No,” Ed answered, his throat suddenly tight, “And you?”

“Noooo,” Oswald made a face like he was sloughing off a joke, “I was just curious, is all.”

“Noted,” Ed’s vision blurred. The sound of muddied combat boots and the snapping of a leather belt drilled into his brain and made him wince, “They’re just rumors, after all.”

“Yes. Of course,” Oswald sipped his morning glass of red wine, “Just rumors.”

* * *

A shadow hung over him that he couldn’t break free from. It wasn’t the same creeping darkness cast by that nagging voice, this made him feel… small. Helpless and trapped. It made his skin prickle and eyes water. 

He lacked the usual pep in his step as he entered City Hall. He usually arrived a few hours before Oswald in order to help him prep for the coming week and to remove any and all busy work from his already overflowing plate. After all, there was no point in boring Oswald with the tedium of the job when Ed actually enjoyed it. It was the least he could do. But that sinking feeling that pressed against his diaphragm as he walked was difficult to ignore. 

Edward rounded a corner and bumped into a group of giggling interns. He stopped long enough to offer a practiced smile as he made his way towards the hallway that led to the office. However, two of the interns leaned in close and snickered as he passed. Anxiety coiled in his stomach, causing him to pick up the pace as he turned just out of sight. Just as he cleared the doorway, he could hear them burst out into laughter.

_“Really?”_ his Other sneered from the reflection on one of the marble columns, _“We don’t work at the GCPD anymore.”_

Edward leaned up against the wall, crumpled in on himself like he used to back when he was that meek and pathetic forensic tech. His knees buckled and his shoulders slumped like he was curling into a ball. He let out a breath and then whipped back around the entryway and the rows of desks. The three jabbering interns squeaked when they saw him approach.

“Mr. Nygma!” one of them straightened her pencil skirt, “How can I assist you? I can get you your coffee or I can—”

“—What were you three just talking about?” he interrupted, adjusting his tie and broadening his shoulders in an attempt to look taller.

The intern who approached him, Betty, swallowed and then slowly turned towards her fellow coworkers, all of them looking like mice caught in a trap. One of them mouthed _“Say something”_ before Betty turned back toward the man who very well could fire all of them (or worse) if she said the wrong thing.

“We were just talking about a few things. Harmless stuff. I doubt it would interest you, Mr. Nygma.”

He smirked and then pointed toward the newspaper one of them was attempting to hide under the desk, “May I see that?”

“Oh… um… it’s just this morning’s paper. That’s all,” the slightly younger intern, Sally Sue, hesitantly handed him the rolled-up newsprint.

“I see,” Edward took it and tucked it under his arm, “And I take it that was why you were laughing?”

“N-No, Mr. Nygma! We weren’t laughing at you,” the third intern, Bradley, stammered.

“Good,” Ed’s smile widened, “Because, if you _were,”_ he took a step closer, “I might have to do something about that.”

He delighted in watching the color drain from their faces. He waited a few moments before bursting out into his own mock laughter. Awkwardly, they joined in with him like the kiss asses they were.

“I’ll be taking this,” he said, gesturing to the paper under his arm, “And, perhaps in the future, you three could busy yourselves with something other than slanderous gossip articles?”

“Y-Yes, Mr. Nygma.”

“Of course, Mr. Nygma.”

“Our apologies, Mr. Nygma.”

“Excellent,” he shot them one last sinister grin before turning and walking away. He stopped again at the corner, unable to resist the urge to listen further.

“God, why is he so creepy?” Sally Sue whispered to her coworkers, the wobble in her tone told Ed that she had shuddered.

“I don’t know, but at least that freak is gone now,” Bradley huffed.

“Let’s find something to do so he doesn’t get any weird ideas when he comes back,” the clacking of Betty’s heels on the polished floors faded off down the opposite hall towards the copier.

Ed locked the office door behind him. It was only when he approached the desk and sat down that he realized how elevated his heart rate was. He palmed at his eyes and loosened his tie before counting down from ten.

_“You’re pathetic.”_

“Shut up,” Ed groaned.

The Other sauntered over and sat down on the edge of the desk next to him, his hair oddly disheveled and his glasses missing, _“You and I both know that their insults aren’t what’s bothering you.”_

Edward looked up and stared at the crumpled black and white photograph in front of him. Oswald’s hand was pressed against his cheek and Edward’s fist was wrapped around his friend’s suit collar. Those vultures...The photo was taken out of context! He’d been unconscious moments before the photo was taken and he was disoriented. It’s not like either of them intentionally meant for that moment to look like… well… _that._

“We can’t be seen as Oswald’s weakness,” Ed announced to the room, “Our enemies will read the papers and try to take advantage.”

Edward knew that it was already too late for them in that regard. He and Oswald were about as close as friends _could_ be. Edward would do anything for his best friend. Even die, if that was for Oswald’s benefit. But he also knew that Oswald was a sentimentalist and Edward feared that it would cause them to misstep in an attempt to save face or even put Oswald into a dangerous predicament to keep Edward safe. Perhaps distance was necessary? It made him groan in frustration.

_“What do you propose we do about that?”_ his Other asked, _“The floodgates are opened. These windbags are going to continue to publish this whether we want them to or not.”_

“I’ll figure it out,” he said, his fingertips pressed firmly against his eyelids, “I _always_ figure _everything_ out.

Ed tried to calm himself on his exhale as he reached over and removed the first file from the ever-growing stack. He just had to keep himself busy. The sea of mindless tasks would help lull him into a calm routine— the slowly diminishing stack mirroring his productivity. His _usefulness._

With only a quarter of the stack completed, the sound of Oswald's cane could be heard down the hall. Ed frowned at the mostly incomplete work and shifted his attention to the file he prepared for Oswald that morning.

“Good afternoon, Mayor Cobblepot,” he smiled brightly and made his way to the front of the desk.

“Good afternoon, my Chief of Staff,” he smiled just as brightly. The dark jewel tones of his suit and the contrast of the lavender tie and ruby pin made him stand out from the banal backdrop of their shared office at City Hall. Despite being around twenty percent less productive that morning, Oswald still seemed happy to see him. That confirmation sent a jolt through his chest that eased his worry.

“Here is your itinerary for today,” Edward handed his friend and employer the file.

“Anything interesting on the agenda?” he asked, scanning over it with a glance.

“Not until this evening,” Ed said with a smirk, “You won’t find it on your itinerary.”

“Oh?” Oswald looked up at him, lashes heavy and dark. He seemed to already have suspicions about their activities.

“A bittersweet claret, aged thirty years. Long established, yet wasted. What am I?”

_“Old blood,_ I assume?” Oswald’s gaze narrowed, eyes aglow and vibrant like stars on a black sky. Edward felt helpless under his stare. He really would do anything for him so long as this man kept looking at him so fondly.

Some of Falcone's former capos and even a few of Fish Mooney's old loyalists were still skulking through the shadows of Gotham. Some of the less powerful gangsters, with a less-than-gentle nudge from the kingpin's right-hand man, kissed the ring. There were still those of the older generation of criminal rule who did not understand Penguin’s vision and needed more of a push.

Ed would never admit it— though he suspected his friend saw it— but he almost preferred them being stubborn. It meant he got to watch their associate, Victor Zsasz, work and even gleefully indulge on his own by carving a few open to set an example for the rest of the Underworld. The best of those moments was when Oswald opted to take care of them himself. The artful way he would flick his wrist and the single spotlight would reflect off the cold metal made Ed’s heart leap into his throat every time. The events he had planned for this evening's festivities were of particular interest.

A new gang led by Milos Grapa, a trusted bodyguard of the former Don, had recruited Fritz Hoffner, a German mobster who sought out to take a piece of Gotham for himself. However, they had been sloppy, underprepared, and altogether a pathetic bunch of criminals. Those that already knew what the Penguin was capable of steered clear of any insurrection. So, the gang was primarily made up of old fools and younger street thugs hoping for a hot meal and a roof over their heads in exchange for service. Much like the Trojan Horse at the gates of Troy, these would-be-criminals attempted to infiltrate the Penguin’s ranks. Once found out, all it took was the promise of a substantially larger paycheck and they turned on their bosses. At that point, Victor Zsasz was able to waltz into their safehouses and drag them into the den of the Underworld King. With any luck, there were still a few stragglers for Ed to snack on after he and Oswald enjoyed dinner.

“Excellent,” Oswald leaned in, “And what is on the _menu_ this evening?”

“Well, if you'd like,” Ed took a step closer, invading Oswald’s space and dropping his voice an octave, “I could carve a chicken up for you. If we have some extra _thyme_ , I could also slow roast them. And, for dessert,” he leaned in even closer, his breath ghosting over Oswald’s cheek, “German cake.”

“That sounds delicious,” Tarquin Stemmel’s needly voice pierced the air like a mosquito buzzing around their ears. Edward’s jaw clenched at the interruption.

“Maybe we'll have to have _you_ for dinner sometime,” Ed sneered, leaning into Oswald who tried to contain a laugh at the double meaning.

“No can do. I'm on a strict diet,” Stemmel flashed a smile, his teeth as painfully white as a doll’s, “These good looks don't maintain themselves.”

“Shame,” Ed's nostrils flared. His assistant Chief of Staff was only alive out of convenience and appearances but, given the opportunity, Edward would delight in popping out his eyes with a spoon.

“For your sake, I hope you have a reason for barging into our office without knocking,” Oswald glared.

“I have some news about the waterfront negotiations. But first…” he cleared his throat, his smile crooked and amused, “Have either of you read the paper this morning?”

“It would not be the first time that Gotham’s journalists tried to pry into mine and Edward’s lives for entertainment. And it won’t be the last,” the Mayor invaded Stemmel’s space but the man was too moronic to take a step backward. Instead, he looked down at the Penguin, cross-eyed. “But this _will_ be the last time that _you_ mention it.”

“Yes. Of course, Mr. Mayor,” Stemmel’s façade faltered, “Um… the waterfront negotiations did not go as you would have hoped.”

“And whose fault was that?” Oswald’s hand twitched. If Edward didn’t intervene soon, the Mayor was likely to lose his temper. But, of _course_ , the negotiation fell through. Ed had given Stemmel _one_ task and had even provided specific directions to navigate through it in order to ensure their best outcome. Clearly, the man was incapable of following simple instructions.

“Mr. Mayor, you are asking for the demolition of countless warehouses to make room for a casino,” he chuckled, “Hundreds of citizens will be out of work and the unions will riot. They also mentioned that a…um… certain _someone_ raised their taxes once at the fishing docks and they were none too pleased with what was brought to their table.”

“That means you strayed from your script,” Ed growled, once again going behind his desk. He was proving to be more of a hindrance than an asset.

“The union leader was quite insistent that he would pursue legal action. He also has a good relationship with the Zoning Commissioner, so it might be best to—”

“—That will be all, thank you,” Oswald waved his hand in a dismissal.

“But… Sir, it is in my job description to aid you in these matters.”

“And can’t you see Mr. Nygma here hard at work devising an alternate route for our negotiations?” he gestured to Edward who was already looking at the file for the waterfront plans and the casino blueprints, “Your services are no longer needed on this matter.”

Stemmel left in a huff down the hallway and Oswald made sure to slam the door behind him. Edward was indeed cooking up a plan of attack to bypass the union leader and secure the property for them. The casino was a valuable chess piece in their game, provided everything went as it should. The hope was for the casino to act as a stronghold for the criminal underground. A haven of sorts to secure laundered money and goods throughout Gotham and even offer services to crime families located in Metropolis, Blüdhaven, and Star City.

“Is everything alright?” Oswald asked, looking around their shared office, “You’ve rearranged everything.”

“Actually,” Edward stood once again, turning towards his friend and clasping his hands behind his back, “I was thinking about moving my office to the mansion. I think I’ll be more productive there.”

“Oh,” Oswald leaned on his cane, disappointed, “Well, if you think that’s best, I won’t stop you. I’ll miss having you here though.”

“I’ll only be a phone call away.”

* * *

The rest of their day continued without interruption. Edward had devised their plan for success after Stemmel’s failed attempt and was even able to do so without interfering with his checklist for their evening. Olga had dinner ready for them by the time they arrived and made herself scarce upon request. She would be needed later, Edward made her aware of that. She’d rolled her eyes, but complied nonetheless.

Edward made a habit of background checking everyone with immediate access to the Mayor— both from a sense of duty and because he valued his friend’s safety. It came as a surprise when Victor Zsasz reported back to him that Oswald’s housekeeper was a blood relative of the Dimitrov Crime Family. His questioning of her had been brief, however. She had left that line of work a long time ago and had receipts to prove it. She also proved to be an asset for the Penguin when it came to cleaning up after certain _“meetings with constituents.”_ It was looking as though her services would be needed after their evening was through.

After dinner, the two made their way to the warehouse where their Head of Security was entertaining their guests. Gabe’s duties had been relegated to that of their driver, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t still there to bust in a few heads when needed. He also served as a reminder to the older mobsters that still clung desperately to the traditions set by the Falcone and Maroni Families that Oswald had them all firmly in his grasp. After parking their car safely between two rows of bulk boxes conveniently out of the eyesight of any cameras, he pulled a baseball bat out of the trunk.

Edward trotted alongside his friend, eager to get his hands dirty. His position at Oswald’s side left him with few opportunities to interact directly and he was beginning to think he was out of practice. Ed was smiling so widely at the prospect of unimpeded torture and murder, his cheeks hurt. He turned to his friend to speak and chuckled at the small dot of vinaigrette from their dinner at the corner of his mouth.

“Let me,” Edward pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it across his friend’s mouth. Oswald was startled at first but settled into the routine. Ed always insisted he looked his best for every occasion.

“Is it to your standards, Edward?” He smiled. If Ed dwelled on it for a moment longer, he might have called the look his friend gave him flirtatious.

“Sharp as a knife. Speaking of which,” he plucked the cherry-handled stiletto from his breast pocket, “I sharpened it before dinner.”

Oswald wrapped his fingers around the handle of the blade, lightly brushing against Ed's gloved hand. Ed’s heart fluttered a little as he imagined their hands soaked in the blood of their shared enemies, the Penguin’s hands guiding his own and the blade along the line of their victim’s throats.

“Thank you,” Oswald said, an edge that bordered on irritation coloring his tone. Or, that was what Edward assumed it was. There was a vexed soreness in his voice and Ed never was very good at pinpointing social cues and emotions. Edward swallowed, hard, and quietly berated himself for forgetting where he was. He’d allowed himself to get too familiar, as he often did, when they were near the Penguin’s lackeys. Hopefully, Oswald would forgive him.

Gabe slid the door open for them and gestured for them to walk inside. Oswald had commissioned a new arsenal of guns at the request of his Head of Security and the man had been busy at work testing them.

“Evening, Boss,” Victor said with a grin. Most of the low life criminals had already been dealt with and Victor had roughly ten new scars up his arm. As he applied peroxide to one of the freshly made cuts, he waved over towards the men tied to their chairs on the opposite side of the room, “I left those two for you.”

Milos Grapa was easy enough to capture. The Penguin had access to most of Don Falcone’s assets that he’d left in Gotham and the old fool had been too stupid to check whether or not the former Don’s safehouses were secure. Edward barely even needed to try and track him down. A few cleverly placed alarm bells and a quick text under his desk in the middle of a meeting at City Hall spelled his end.

Fritz Hoffner was a little more difficult. He was a more unassuming character. Generic, really. He was attractive but had a forgettable face. He was an excellent spy according to the information Edward dug up on him and had hoped to persuade him into their fold, but the allure of money wasn’t enough to get him on their side. He made it _very_ clear that he despised the Penguin and, in reality, he was the one pulling all of the strings. Grapa was merely a pawn to get Falcone’s remaining capos that had been hiding in the shadows on his payroll.

Unfortunately for him, Edward was a professional when it came to research. He discovered that Hoffner had quite a few _appetites_. The German had been spending his evenings at the Foxglove. Victor Zsasz, of all people, was able to navigate his way through the front door and put a bullet through the man’s knee cap. His capture proved doubly useful for Edward and the Penguin because, serendipitously, the union leader getting in their way of the waterfront negotiations was also there and Zsasz was able to snap a few photographs.

_“Fortune favors the bold,”_ Oswald had said upon Edward delivering the news at dinner. It certainly did seem like Fate had handed them everything they could have ever needed in order to succeed. Like the Spirit of Gotham herself was aiding them in their pursuit forward.

“Let me have this one, Boss,” Gabe grumbled, twitching with the bat in his hand and staring down at a clobbered Milos Grapa, “This guy was a royal pain in my ass when I worked for Sal.”

Milos Grapa was a veteran of Gotham’s Underworld. He’d endured torture more times than he could count on behalf of Don Falcone and, unless Ed and the Penguin got particularly creative, they wouldn’t get much out of him. 

“Don’t kill him,” Ed instructed, “He could still be useful.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Gabe groaned.

“Gabriel,” the Penguin narrowed his gaze at his lackey, “I’m sure Edward has a reason. Don’t question him.”

“He was close to Don Falcone, correct?” Edward rolled up his sleeves, “My sources said that they were even friends.”

“Yeah, they were pretty chummy,” Gabe said. “Which is sayin’ somethin’ because Falcone didn’t really have friends.”

“Exactly,” Ed smirked and then turned to Oswald, “Some of Falcone’s assets are still frozen. Why not use his former bodyguard as leverage to get you access to those?”

“Hmm… Falcone isn’t exactly answering phone calls at the moment, but I’m sure mailing him a few fingers could motivate him,” Oswald smiled before having the man dragged away.

Edward delighted in the carnage of the warehouse. This particular lifestyle was all still very new to him and the novelty of murder and the knowledge that he’d get away with it hadn’t quite faded. So every scream and spattering of blood made his skin feel like it was on fire. Oswald, being the perceptive mentor that he was, recognized that and allowed him to indulge in a few experimental stabbings and even get some practice improving his accuracy with bullets and throwing knives.

Each murder was not without purpose, of course. He wasn’t quite so unhinged. Every lackey he tore open terrified the next and loosened their tongues. Each cleverly placed knife between someone’s ribs or bullet meant to wound and not kill kept Edward’s skills sharpened. He was always eager to learn and often missed having free reign of the lab at the GCPD. Now, instead of a steel slab and cadavers, he had broken concrete and squirming participants.

He came up for air after cataloguing his victim’s organs and looked over to Oswald. The man licked his lips and his hand was twitching at his side. There was a feralness to the Penguin that Edward seemed to be able to bring out in him. The inner sadist in both of them frollicing around Gotham’s vacant warehouses and cackling like school girl’s when they watched the bodies sink to the bottom of the river.

“That one is still moving,” Oswald said, gesturing to the man beside Ed but never breaking eye contact.

“Let me remedy that for you,” Ed grinned, eyes locked with his friend. 

He felt the slight pressure against the tip of his blade. The man groaned, having already had his tongue cut out earlier that evening for saying some unsavory things about the Penguin in Ed’s presence. He tried to scream, but there was no point. In one thrust, Ed’s knife plunged itself under the man’s sternum and into his heart.

Oswald remained connected to him through their gaze. For a moment Ed thought he was going to say something to him before he shook his head and turned his attention to their last victim, Fritz Hoffner.

“It really is in your best interest to kiss the ring,” the Penguin leaned in, “I'll only raise taxes by, oh, let's say 30 percent. Given the utter _nuisances_ you have been, the damage to the goods at my warehouses, and the fact that _I just don't like you_ , I'd say that is a merciful deal.”

“Fuck you,” the German spat.

And there it was— the last threads of Penguin’s patience snapped. Ed tried to contain his giddiness as he saw the telltale signs of his friend’s ire. The flex and curl of his right hand. The movement of the blade into his dominant left hand. That predatorial sharpness to all of his facial features.

In one graceful motion, The Penguin sliced the German’s face from the corner of his mouth to his earlobe. He screamed but, just like the rest of them, it didn't matter. If there were any police patrolling the area, they were likely already on Penguin's payroll.

All of the cuts were on one side of his face. He had to be recognizable after all. That way he could be made a proper example.

* * *

Oswald groaned rather dramatically when they arrived home, sounding a bit like one of those gasping women from his black and white films. Edward chuckled and hung up their suit jackets before busying himself with disposing of their soiled laundry in the fire. 

“Falcone’s old capos sure seem to focus on my appearance more than anything. Calling out my stature and my less than attractive facial structure,” Oswald frowned, gazing at his reflection on the decanter “I’m not really that hideous, am I?”

“Of course not,” Edward told him, “You’re unconventional, but not unattractive. And you’re certainly a vision with a knife in your hand.”

“Your flattery is amusing,” Oswald rolled his eyes.

“You think I’m lying?” Edward frowned, taking the decanter and pouring them both a celebratory drink, as was customary after dealing with a troublesome Underworld matter.

Oswald answered by scrunching his nose and looking away. He lifted his hand to take the drink Edward was offering him and complained when Ed pulled it away and set it on the table instead. Then, in a gesture not entirely his own, Edward grabbed his friend by the jaw. Oswald’s eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away. There was fire in his stare, but also trust. Ed gave an experimental squeeze and felt his whole being shudder as his fingers caressed the man’s jawline. 

“This is the face of a man not to be trifled with,” Ed said, “Least of all by himself.”

“And is that an attractive quality?” Oswald arched an eyebrow.

_“Among others,”_ the Other replied. Ed hadn’t realized the voice had spoken out loud until he saw the look on Oswald’s face.

“I'll try and remember that,” Oswald smirked.

Edward cleared his throat, reclaiming his voice, “If you don't, I'll be sure to remind you.”

They discussed the next steps in their plans, leisurely talking about which loud gang leaders to dispose of next. Among them was Butch Gilzean, who was still an ugly smudge on Edward’s prid. Oswald droned on for some time after his name was brought up and how all he wanted was to get his hands on him. Edward, ever dutiful, promised to bring him to the feet of the kingpin.

During their discussion, Oswald became tense. His whole body was tightly wound, like a spool of barbed wire that would soon snap and lash out at the nearest object.

“Let me,” Edwards said for the second time that evening. He firmly patted the top of his leg, signaling for Oswald to place his foot there.

“What?” Oswald stared at him.

“I’ve rubbed your shoulders before, this isn’t any different,” Ed said, “Take off your shoes and I’ll rub your feet for you.”

“You’re serious?”

“Mmhmm,” Ed nodded, “Some ancient cultures believed that there was a sort of healing quality to foot massages. They thought that there were pressure points that corresponded to different organs and glands in the body that could be stimulated and improved through massage. I’m no reflexologist, but it should prove therapeutic regardless,” he wiggled his fingers for emphasis. 

At first, Oswald didn’t seem to know how to respond. His cheeks and the tips of his ears were red. Edward looked over at his glass, thinking that perhaps he’d had too much whiskey too quickly. But, Oswald set it aside and reached down to slide off his Oxfords. 

“You're dangerous,” Oswald huffed and swiveled himself onto the couch, placing his foot within Ed's reach.

“Oh?” Ed asked, rubbing his hands together to warm them.

“Just with the sheer level of trust I place in you should be cause for concern,” Oswald crossed his arms and sunk into his side of the sofa.

“That does make me dangerous,” Ed said with a grin as he applied pressure at Oswald’s ankle and glided his hands down toward the tip of his toes, alternating his hands to gently pull and stretch the muscles there.

“It wouldn't take much to destroy me,” Oswald said, his breath sounding like it was trapped at the top of his lungs.

“Why do you say that?” Ed asked, shifting his focus to the top of Oswald’s foot. He glided his thumbs along the bones closest to the surface, adding firm pressure and noting where they hadn’t healed properly and the resulting knots of scar tissue near his ankle, “The gangs fear you. The GCPD has no choice but to comply, most of them are in your pocket anyway. And anyone in your immediate circle is terrified of being picked apart by Victor Zsasz.”

“Yes, but should anyone decide to hurt you or should you yourself decide that you're better off—”

“Stop that,” Edward flicked one of his toes, inciting an audible gasp from his friend, “That's not going to happen.”

“I assume you've planned for that?” Oswald scoffed.

“I'm smarter than any of those that would dare oppose you,” he said, rolling his knuckles along Oswald’s arch.

“And what about you?” Oswald’s eyelashes fluttered.

“What about me?” Ed smirked, enjoying how relaxed his friend looked.

“Whatever should I do if you were the one who opposed me?”

“Well, unfortunately, you have had me involved in all of your plans from the start. I have access to your accounts, your home, your security...” Oswald’s eyes widened as he spoke. Ed smiled, “Lucky for you, I am happy where I am.”

“Good,” Oswald chuckled nervously. He bit his lip, “... Are you though?”

“Am I what?” Ed’s hands drifted further up Oswald’s leg, his tumb tracing a hard line up the center of his taut calf muscle.

“Happy?” he asked, his expression lingering on some emotion Ed couldn't decipher. Sometimes he really hated how Oswald seemed to be the one puzzle he couldn’t always pick apart. “Can you honestly say you're happy here? With me?”

“Of course,” Ed answered without question.

“Doesn't it get lonely though?”

“No,” Ed ran the palm of his hand up the length of Oswald’s shin, forcing him to lean in closer. He gently squeezed the muscles on either side of his knee, making certain not to accidentally add too much pressure around his old injury, “Your company is all that I need.”

“Ed...”

“Hm?” He looked up from his hands and locked eyes with his friend. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water but no words came out. Ed leg go of his leg, his hands hovering in the air as he waited.

“I think it's about time for me to turn in for the night,” Oswald lifted himself up and pulled his leg from Ed's grasp.

Disappointed and assuming that his massage must’ve not been as satisfying as he’d hoped, he frowned. He would just have to research better techniques and test what worked, provided Oswald was even comfortable letting him touch him again. 

“I'll probably be up for a little while longer setting up my new office,” Ed said.

“Yes, I'd forgotten…”

“It means you can sleep in,” Ed reassured him. “Instead of having to go all the way to City Hall, you can just venture downstairs to fetch your itinerary for the day.”

“Will I see you at breakfast tomorrow?”

“No, I have a few errands to run before we start our day,” Ed told him, “Olga will take care of breakfast for you.”

“Well then…” Oswald shifted on his feet, rolling his bottom lip between his sharp teeth. He looked like something was bothering him, but Edward couldn’t read minds. Unfortunately, he was also too nervous to ask what was the matter. “Try not to stay up too late.”

“I won’t.”

“You _say_ that, but then you routinely do the opposite,” he smirked, “You have to take care of yourself too. Not just me.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ed said.

Oswald gave him one last look before excusing himself upstairs. It was only then that Edward became aware of the eerie sound of some disembodied siren ringing in his ears. His whole body shook with an unnamed uneasiness with no discernable origin or reason. It bordered on that same feeling of tension right before some announcement and the sensation of having a word linger on the tip of your tongue but being unable to voice it properly in context.

He was able to stave off his anxiety by occupying his mind with rearranging the corner of the room that would soon become his home office. He’d considered claiming one of the empty side rooms but felt that their enclosed spaces would hinder his ability to think. They were all far too cramped and cluttered for his liking. They would also prevent him from being able to spend as much time in Oswald’s presence as he wanted. With his desk now situated across from the couch and near the fire, he could have Oswald sit with him and there was plenty of room for the diminutive bird to pace and tongue lash at the air as he often did while Ed was working.

Several hours passed and, just as Edward was finishing up the final rearranging of the pencils from big to small on his desk, he heard a noise coming from the library. He approached the entryway and, as expected, there was Oswald clad in nothing but a nightshirt and his gold brocade robe.

“Oswald?” Ed carefully walked towards him, “What are you doing?”

Oswald murmured in response. He was reaching up towards an old book in the corner of the top shelf. Ed looked at the clock and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t one to judge Oswald wanting to do some late-night research. He stepped onto the nearby chair and took the book down. It didn’t look particularly special and it was covered in dust. He briefly flipped through the pages and frowned at the handwritten passages in what Ed assumed to be Norwegian. He glanced up at his friend and, upon seeing his closed eyes, had to stifle a laugh.

“Are you even awake?”

Oswald shifted unsteadily on his feet, remaining silent. Ed chuckled, returned the old memoir, and gently guided his friend back to his room.

_“He was right, you know. You don’t get enough sleep,”_ the Other spoke to him upon his return to the office. He was sprawled out on the couch, looking altogether quite amused and comfortable. Like a stubborn houseguest who was continuing to overstay his welcome.

“I can function normally so long as I get at least four hours,” Ed said, glancing up at the clock once more. He still had time before he had to force himself to sleep, but he couldn’t afford any more distractions. His informants were supposed to report back to him with any information they had on Butch Gilzean and he still had to piece together a special little package meant for Nicky the Nail that morning.

_“You’re just as stubborn as he is,”_ the Other laughed, _“I don’t mind though. Because, when you’re tired, you’ll fall asleep and then I get to come out and play.”_

“That’s not going to happen,” Ed glared, “I won’t let you hurt him.”

_“What makes you so sure I want to hurt our little bird?”_

“Because that’s what you do!” he yelled, slamming his hands on the top of his desk. He and his vision both sucked in a breath and listened for any signs that they might’ve awoken Oswald. When no sound came from upstairs, they relaxed.

_“I deserve a name,”_ the Other jumped up from the couch.

“Not happening,” Ed pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and tried to focus on the task at hand. What that task was, he hadn’t decided.

_“I’m a person, you know,”_ Ed heard the Other huff.

“No. No, you’re not,” his vision blurred and he tried to focus on rearranging the now toppled stacks of paper, “You’re just in my head.”

_“Well..._ yeah _. I am. But also I’m more than just a figment of—”_

“—Professor Strange said that you weren’t real,” Ed plugged his ears and shook his head.

_“Wow. That madman did more damage than we thought, huh?”_

“What do you mean?” Edward dared to turn around. His Other was standing there, arms crossed, with an expression a of disappointment and concern.

_“He drilled into that gooey little brain of yours and convinced you that I wasn’t real when I_ clearly _am,”_ he said, gesturing to himself, _“And yet, he spoke to_ me _as if I was a separate person. Why do you think that is?”_

“Is this a riddle?” Ed asked, unsure.

_“Not really, it’s a pretty straightforward question. But, seeing as how you’re a little slow on the uptake, I’ll let you know what I think.”_ Suddenly, he was standing directly in front of him, his hands settled on Ed’s shoulders, forcing him to look his reflection in the eyes, _“Strange was scared of us. He knew that if we ever started working together like we had before, that we would tear Arkham Asylum apart from the inside out. No cage could ever contain us and he knew that.”_

Edward had pondered the Other’s words most of the morning. However, he didn’t allow it to prevent him from accomplishing his goals for the day.

His informants brought him no new insights aside from confirming that Nicky the Nail, a local smuggler and former employee of Fish Mooney, had indeed offered Butch a safehouse shortly after he’d escaped custody. Ed had mostly managed to instill enough fear in Butch’s old allies, but Nicky hadn’t seemed to have gotten the memo. Which was why Edward took it upon himself to make him a little gift that would prevent him from ever crossing them again.

Susan, one of Ed’s secretaries from City Hall, had come over to the Mayor’s mansion upon request. Just as she arrived, Edward had finished signing off some paperwork.

“These go directly to the city clerk's office. And _this_ ,” Ed handed her the envelope before turning to the small bomb he’d made, “Leave this outside Nicky the Nail’s place. Knock twice. Light it and then run.”

Susan wasn’t very bright, but she never asked questions, which made her perfect for the job. She also probably wouldn’t be able to run very quickly in that pencil skirt and those heels, so Ed made a mental note to interview a new secretary for the position.

Oswald approached him from the foyer, dressed in a stunning indigo suit and looking refreshed after last night’s activities at the warehouse. Ed smiled and took his files in hand.

“Good morning, Mayor Cobblepot.”

“Good morning to you, my Chief of Staff.”

“Here are your schedules for today. This covers your duties as Mayor,” he handed him a freshly made stack of papers, one on top of the other, “and this as kingpin of the Underworld.”

“You really are settling into your role here aren’t you, Ed?” Oswald smiled, glancing around at the new office space.

“And yet I still have so much to learn from you,” Ed replied, already feeling the sting of embarrassment at his lackluster performance.

“Oh…” Oswald shied away, looking down at the floor. He looked like he wanted to say something, but was keeping it buried.

Edward cleared his throat. Better to address the elephant in the room now rather than later, “I came up empty tracking down Butch. Somehow, that one handed ape managed to disappear. I suspect he’s hiding with his old crew,” Ed chewed on his lip, his voice meek and gravelly. He hated how it made him sound, “Sorry for letting you down.”

“You have done _nothing_ of the sort,” Oswald shook his head, trying to reassure his friend, “I would be lost without you. In fact, um… there is something that I need to tell you. Something very important.”

Ed turned so that he was facing him and held his breath. If it wasn’t about Butch, then perhaps it had soemthing to do with Milos Grapa or Fritz Hoffner? Maybe how Ed was accidentally too affectionate with his friend in front of people? Or maybe it had to do with the articles written about them in the papers… The possibilities were swimming under Ed’s skin and not knowing what was bothering his friend was the most troubling part.

Oswald was visibly trembling, his mouth opening and then closing. Ed had never seen him so nervous or fidgety. It made him uncomfortable seeing him so vulnerable outside of being ill or sleepwalking. It struck him as all wrong and it put him on edge.

“What is it, Oswald?” Ed asked.

“You know what? I forget,” Oswald faked a laugh, “In and out of my head, just like that. Don’t you hate that when that happens?”

_“He’s lying,”_ his Other whispered in his ear, _“And he can’t even be bothered to hide it.”_

“That never happens to me...” Ed frowned, unsure how to process the interaction.

“You know what? I believe that,” he laughed again, still manufactured and unsubtle. He changed the subject by looking down at the papers in his hand, “So, uh, where are we off to first?”

“PS 134,” Ed replied, allowing the distraction to pull them from the awkward moment, “You’re touring a school. Press will be there, so we better get a move on.”

The “very important subject” that Oswald seemed nervous about discussing didn’t get brought back up until part way through the scheduled tour. The two of them had finally settled back into their usual routine despite the utter chaos that was the atmosphere of a public elementary school. Edward paid him another complement, unable to contain his awe of the man before him, and Oswald requested that they discuss the matter over dinner.

It wasn’t like Oswald to discuss important, criminal topics over dinner unless it was lighthearted banter or reminiscing about different ways they could gain power. No... dinner was reserved for them. That was their time to relax and be themselves. It would be odd for Oswald to switch things so suddenly, so surely this wasn’t a matter of such importance that they couldn’t enjoy a bottle of wine during their conversation.

Edward gravitated toward his usual bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. It was a staple at their dinner tables since Oswald favored heartier dishes and pork. Sauvignon had also been one of the Penguin’s favorites when he was at Ed's apartment, so it held some nostalgia.

_“We should try to impress him this time,”_ the Other trailed his finger over the bottles to his right.

“It's just a conversation. No need to impress him,” Ed mumbled under his breath, hoping he wouldn't be overheard by anyone else in the wine shop.

_“Is it just a conversation?”_ he hummed, _“Could have fooled me. Pick this one.”_

Ed took the expensive bottle of Aszú-Esszencia from the self. It was certainly impressive and likely to tug at Oswald's sentimentality given its Hungarian origin. Was it too much though? He’d already gotten too close recently… perhaps Oswald doubted how genuine he was? Maybe he should play it safe and just pick up their usual? No, of course Oswald wasn’t mad at him. What a ridiculous thought. He cared about Ed. Oswald must have sensed his worry and this was meant to reassure him—

“Impossible to pick the perfect bottle, isn't it?” a nervous, feminine voice spoke beside him.

“Well, it all depends on region and vintage,” he replied, “Of course, you have to consider the wine pairing.”

He turned briefly to face her and immediately felt all the blood in his veins turn to ice. He nearly dropped the bottle of wine in his hand. Even the voice in his head had lost the ability to speak. Just as he was beginning to wonder if she was even real, she batted her lashes at him.

“Miss Kringle?” he nearly cried just saying the name out loud, his throat tight and sore.

“No... um, no. My name's Isabella,” she corrected him, “Um... I'm sorry to bother you. I don't usually talk to people. There's just something about you.”

She turned to leave but Ed couldn’t bear to watch a vision so perfect slip from his fingers. Besides, there _must_ have been a reason for Fate to have put her in his path.

“No. No, please. There's... no need to apologize. You just... You remind me of someone that I used to know,” he frowned, “...A long time ago.”

_“Don't you dare get distracted,”_ the Other hissed.

Ed turned his attention back to the wine. The voice was right, he had an appointment to keep. Best not to keep Oswald waiting. Then, without warning...

“You struggle to regain me. When I am lost, do you struggle to obtain me? What am I?”

“Time,” he smiled.

His eyes flickered up long enough to see the reflection of the Other in the glass. He rolled his eyes and turned away, disappearing into the void. Edward could spare a few minutes. Oswald probably wouldn’t mind.


End file.
